


Where the Dandelions Grow

by RenDoe



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Character Death, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-16 14:33:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 45,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9276203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenDoe/pseuds/RenDoe
Summary: He never truly believed anything big would come from him and Daryl Dixon. It’d end with heartbreak on his part, because he made the mistake of letting his guard down, but this was the first time he actually paused. Considered the possibilities…Months following the defeat of the Saviors, Paul and Daryl try to move forward.





	1. Paul

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I’ve completed in years and the first one I’ve written for this fandom. I considered making this a typical multichapter, but the sections varied too much in length. In the end, I split it into two parts that are about 20,000 words a piece.
> 
> Also, this is canon compliant up to 7x09 and contains comic spoilers (how the war with the Saviors pans out). So, if you’re averse to that sort of thing, turn back now or proceed with caution.
> 
> As a fair warning, this is not beta’ed and any mistakes/typos found are my own.

_I. Now_

He wakes up warm. There’s a short time that he is tempted to surrender to the heavy weight behind his eyes, let himself drift off once more, but the callused fingers traveling across the ridges of his spine wander to the edge of his ribs where he’s the most ticklish. He inhales loudly, stretches out beneath the comforter, toes rubbing against something warm and solid, before he finally opens his eyes.

Instinctively, he flinches as the brightness floods his vision. The sun is garish and brilliant against his poor, flimsy excuse of a curtain – and he makes a mental note to find some actual, opaque drapes. Spring has already taken hold of Alexandria – and summer isn’t too far behind.

The hand against his ribs shifts, up and away, once again flat against his back, tracing an upward path towards his shoulder blades. Paul takes another breath and lays his lips on the man’s sternum, until he feels those fingers pause. The solid figure beneath him takes a shuddering breath.

Paul presses his lips there again, drags his teeth to the man’s throat, to his jaw. He stops himself there, choosing to nuzzle his nose against the soft curve of his bedmate’s neck. The smell of pine and cedar – and a hint of whiskey – swirls all around him.

“Good morning,” he finally says. He draws himself back and props himself up on his hands, using the man’s chest as a foundation.

Those blue eyes stare back. They no longer drift away like they once used to. There isn’t something dark in those irises that shakes Paul down to the bones. Now, all that’s left there is something warm and familiar. Affection – although he would never utter that aloud. Not yet, at least.

With time, though. A little more time to get accustomed to one another. Just a little more.

Paul Rovia is a patient man but, unlike his moniker, he certainly isn’t a saint.

“Mornin’,” Daryl finally says. The hand on his back falls somewhere against the mattress, much to his disappointment.

If there’s one thing Paul knows about Daryl Dixon, it’s that he’s a man of few words. Paul doesn’t mind, however, because he’s more than happy to fill the silences in between.

“Thought you were going on a run with Rick this morning?” He remembers a brief mention of it the night before. He remembers expecting to wake up alone to a cold bed.

“Was gonna,” Daryl tells him. “But he wanted to go all the way to the Kingdom.”

If anything, Paul feels even more confused than when he woke up.

He laughs. “That never stopped you before.”

Daryl told him some time ago that he liked the longer trips, the time he was away from Alexandria and its fancy suburban houses. Places where he didn’t feel like he was suffocating or that the walls were closing in on him. Granted, he had one beer too many that night on the porch, but loose lips often provide sober thoughts.

This time, he doesn’t get much of an answer. He hears a faint grunt – an affirmative that he heard the comment at least – but his mind short-circuits when those large, callused hands return to his skin, worn but achingly familiar. Daryl reaches up and pulls a stray strand away from Paul’s face, tucking it behind his ear.

“Didn’t feel like goin’ this time,” Daryl mumbles. He utters it so quiet that Paul nearly misses it.

There’s a flip in his stomach, something between butterflies and a sudden drop. The words register in his mind but admittedly, he has trouble comprehending them. A hundred questions fly through his brain, like bolts of lightning in an electric storm, but he can’t bring himself to ask a single one.

Instead, Paul sits up, one hand flat against Daryl’s chest. For a few moments, they just stare at one another. It briefly reminds him of their second meeting, Paul in the grass with two guns pointed at him. Daryl staring down at him like a silent challenge. Thankfully, there aren’t any guns this time. There’s a distinct lack of clothing compared to then as well.

Finally, Paul closes his eyes and leans back down, slotting their lips together in a lazy kiss that leaves his skin tingling. Daryl’s kisses remind him of something primal, something not quite wild but not yet tame either, situated in that gray area in between. He’s the only person Paul’s ever kissed that could be both rough and endearing all the same.

He draws away, still close enough that Daryl’s breath fans against his cheek. When he opens his eyes again, he finds those tantalizing blues staring at him, hazier than they were before.

“What did you feel like doing then?”

The palm that wraps around his cock is a surprise – because he still vividly remembers Daryl’s clumsy, inexperienced fingers that once danced around him like his skin was glass about to break.

It’s hard to believe; he thinks as Daryl pushes him down and switches their positions until he’s the one hovering over Paul. Daryl’s spits on his hand and grips the base of Paul’s cock with confidence, pumping him agonizingly slow – until Paul’s left a breathless mess beneath him with a thousand pleas readied on his tongue.

Daryl kisses him, licking into his mouth as his hand speeds up. He swallows Paul’s gasping moans with ease, nips at his jaw as the pad of his thumb teases the slit.

Paul’s nails scrape against the rough edges of Daryl’s face, dragging down, across his broad shoulders and firm arms to his waist, where he can feel the shallow divot of an old scar. He wraps a leg around Daryl’s flank, hoping for some sort of leverage.

“Fuck,” he manages, arching up into Daryl’s hand with impatience. “Daryl – oh fuck. Daryl, m’gonna come. Fuck.”

Daryl’s hand quickens and Paul can feel that blindingly familiar tightness coiling in his gut. Paul yanks him back down by the scruff, pushes their mouths together, and Daryl strokes him through it. He watches with keen eyes as Paul comes undone beneath him. He kisses him through the haze of it, lets Paul memorize the contours of his mouth again and again until he can finally feel his toes once more.

“Fuck,” he says again, for the lack of a better word.

It’s enough to earn a rare semblance of a smile from Daryl. If he were anyone else, he probably wouldn’t know any better. The slight upward curve of his lips is barely present, gone as quick as it had appeared, but Paul captures a glimpse of it.

He’s not surprised to see that Daryl has quickly picked up on the aftercare side of things. The man reaches to the floor and bundles up the white cloth in his hand before using it to wipe away the mess from Paul’s stomach. It takes Paul a moment to realize what happened.

“Was that my shirt?”

“I’ll get ya a new one,” is all Daryl tells him before flopping back down next to him. He’s pliant as Paul wraps himself around him like an octopus.

“Alright,” he agrees. “But I’m borrowing one of yours until then – one that still has sleeves.” There is probably only a handful of shirts Daryl hasn’t managed to get to with a pair of scissors.

Daryl scoffs at him, but doesn’t try to convince him otherwise.

“So,” he decides to say, venturing forward towards a destination he doesn’t know. “Why didn’t you go with him?”

“Them,” Daryl corrects gruffly. “Tara and Aaron went too.”

“Wasn’t asking about them. Was asking ‘bout you.”

For whatever reason, Daryl seems reluctant to answer him. Paul has an inkling – but he’s almost afraid to let himself entertain such an idea. The elusive, lone wolf Daryl Dixon missing someone like Paul – who’s anything but – is quite a concept. One that he’s reluctant to even dream.

His father had always told him he cared too much, that others didn’t care enough. But it never stopped him. It was a constant battle between head and heart; and logically, he always came out the other end more broken than when he went in.

It didn’t take face-eating corpses to make him believe that people would ever really change. They adapted, they grew hard edges and learned how to pull a trigger without remorse, but their hearts never changed shape.

He never truly believed anything big would come from him and Daryl Dixon. It’d end with heartbreak on his part, because he made the mistake of letting his guard down, but this was the first time he actually paused. Considered the possibilities…

“Jus’ didn’t feel like goin’ is all.”

Paul doesn’t believe him. There’s definitely more than meets the eye. But Daryl doesn’t respond well to prodding – he figured that out pretty fast – so he merely lets them be. He sighs softly and reaches for Daryl’s hand, until their fingers are woven around one another’s.

After all, spending the day in bed doesn’t sound too awful to him whatsoever.

 

* * *

 

_II. Then_

War is…different than he expected it to be. It moves at a snail’s pace in comparison to all the movies he’s seen. It’s bloody and gruesome, as loud as it is quiet. But when someone withers away in front of your very eyes, it’s almost surreal. None of it seems to sink in properly. No, it takes days for him to process when they lose a single person whose name he can actually recall. Sometimes, he’ll turn around and expect Kal to be at his flank, spear in hand, only to find himself completely vulnerable to an attack.

And the end hardly feels like an end at all because too many of the other side still stand, eyes narrowed in disgust, guns pointed to their gates. All it would take is one bullet. One bullet to start another war. One bullet to begin another period of madness. War has cycled since the beginning of humanity. That’s one thing the new world hasn’t found a way to change.

He quickly finds that he’s not the only one displeased with the outcome.

_“We’re better than this. Better than him.”_

Rick may be a leader – a damn good one at that – but Paul doubts he’ll ever agree with him on the handling of Negan and the Saviors. He knows it’ll come back to haunt them, because Dwight can only do so much. Monsters can change their skin, but they can never change their true colors.

Peace is…quiet. It lingers, but the silence is anything but comforting. It feels like the calm before a thunderstorm, the eye of a hurricane. Like he’s waiting for something to happen. For someone else to die or for someone to pick up a gun and decide they’ve had enough.

Peace is a pipe dream in a world without rules.

Paul decides to stay in Alexandria. Truth be told, there isn’t a solid reason as to why he chose not to return to Hilltop, but it’s what he settles on regardless. Hilltop was never home to him. Neither is Alexandria, but these people have a better feel for the world around them than any other group he’s been with.

He misses Maggie. But he knows that Hilltop’s in good hands with someone like her. And she’s stronger than most of them, strong enough to stand on her own two feet.

He ends up sticking close to the walls for the time being. He takes shifts up in the guard tower, helps Tara and Eric with inventory when they ask for it. Eventually, it becomes a routine. Mundane – but any semblance of normalcy is welcome now. In some ways, he finds himself clinging to it. It helps him forget, makes him fall asleep the moment he’s horizontal instead of sitting through the flashes of images that like to cycle through his mind whenever he thinks too long or hard.

The only odd thing he discovers is how out of sync Alexandria is in comparison to Hilltop. He notices how Tara lingers in what’s left of the nurse’s station. He notices how Eugene and Rosita often wander about with only one another as company, outside the gates more so than inside. He notices how Daryl walks the streets at dawn and dusk with only his crossbow and the occasional bottle of whiskey as company.

The people of Alexandria are frostier than the people at Hilltop ever were. They’re naturally distrustful – even after all this – but can’t blame them. Hell, if he were in their position, he wouldn’t trust himself either.

Predictably, friends are hard to come by in such a chilly climate. He spends most of his time with Tara – because “we gays have to stick together”, her words not his – or Rick – because he’s a familiar face. He sometimes eats dinner at Aaron and Eric’s. He’s babysat Judith when everyone else was too busy to.

For awhile, he feels like he just…exists.

It feels like he’s doing the bare minimum to scrape through the day. In some ways, he supposes that it’s not far from the truth. He also sees a lot of people doing the same.

Existing is a common sight to see. Living, however, is not.

“Ever feel like you’re just…floating. That you’re just there and…” He sucks in a breath, unsure of the right words.

When he looks over, he finds Daryl staring at him like he’s sprouted a second head. He’d laugh under any other circumstance, but he always feels like Daryl’s two seconds from shoving him off the watchtower. There are a lot more…honorable ways to go.

The cigarette between his lips is limp, close to falling to the ground.

“How much did ya have t’drink?”

“Nothing,” he answers, slow. Paul looks back down to the trees. “Never mind. Just forget I said anything.”

He can feel Daryl’s eyes against his skin but Daryl doesn’t say anything more. Eventually, Daryl goes back to staring at the woods as well, searching for any signs of trouble. There’s a gun on his shoulder instead of a crossbow.

Frankly, he doubts that Daryl cares about ninety-five percent of what comes out of his mouth. Daryl doesn’t seem to have any inclination for idle chatter, let alone any of Paul attempts. Daryl doesn’t hate him like he used to – the threats have stopped at least – but they’re not really friends either. Their relationship exists somewhere in that gray area that doesn’t have a name as far as he’s aware of.

Daryl’s distaste of him stopped after the Sanctuary. It’s as close to a ‘thank you’ that Paul will probably ever get from him, but it’s better than nothing he supposes.

“Gonna go on a run tomorrow,” he hears Daryl say. “Won’t be back fer’ a week. Maybe two.”

When he turns to the redneck, he finds Daryl staring back.

The sunset makes Daryl’s hair shine gold under the right circumstances. The yellow and red glare makes the archer’s eyes impossibly bright. It makes him miss the ocean.

“You hear me?”

“Yeah,” Paul manages out, tearing his eyes away. His face feels warm. “Yeah. I heard you.”

He pauses, considers the words, and can’t help but ask, “Why are you telling me this?”

Daryl shrugs halfheartedly. “Won’t be up here tomorrow,” he answers, like it’s an explanation.

“Where are you going?”

“The Kingdom. And then some.”

Further out than the Kingdom… It’s further than he’s ever bothered to go. Wander too far and you’ll get lost – that’s what Alex always told him. Although, he supposes it was a feeble attempt to keep Paul from going too far.

“Just…be careful,” Paul decides to stay. He doubts Daryl would appreciate Alex’s advice. Knowing him, he’d probably take it as an insult. Paul would rather avoid a misunderstanding altogether.

“Yeah, yeah. I ain’t runnin’ out there blind,” Daryl grumbles with a scowl. He puts out his cigarette and leans back.

Paul stares towards the sun once more, until his eyes begin to burn. Where everything else is strange and new, the sun is the only thing that feels like home.

 

* * *

  
True to his word, Paul doesn’t see Daryl for nearly a week and a half. He’s stationed at the gate when Rick’s group returns and he signals for Eugene to let them through. Thankfully, they don’t appear to have any injuries aside from the occasional, reckless bruise. They seem more tired than anything.

“Find anything out there?” he asks Daryl soon after he reaches the ground.

Daryl’s eyes snap to him, not expecting a question so soon apparently. He gnaws at his thumb and scrapes the toe of his boot into the dirt.

“Nah.”

“Better off finding nothing than something bad, I guess,” he offers.

Daryl doesn’t bother with a reply. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a box of cigarettes and a lighter. The smell of cigarette smoke hasn’t changed all these years either.

Something Paul has noticed recently is Daryl’s penchant for fidgeting. He always needs to keep himself busy in some way. Whether it’s a method to ward off conversation or a means to burn off excess energy, he doesn’t know.

Eventually, everyone goes their own way. Rick and Michonne go to unload some of the supplies Ezekiel must have provided them, while Morgan and Rosita disappear somewhere back into the streets of Alexandria. Perhaps, to check on Negan. He’s pretty sure Morgan was the one who constructed the cell in the first place.

His watch ends when Aaron relieves him. The sun is already setting when he walks the lonely street, taking the familiar path back to his own empty home. Every day, his route takes him past what he assumes to be Daryl’s house. It’s an old, tattered model – and Paul wouldn’t be surprised if Daryl chose that house for that reason alone. As far as he’s aware, no one else lives there except for the archer. Typically, it’s all but desolate when he treads past.

This time, however, he has to pause because Daryl is sitting there on his dimly lit porch, on an old rickety chair with a flask of something in one hand, lit cigarette in the other.

“Got room for one more?” he calls over.

Daryl’s eyes are impossibly dark beneath the muted lighting, but he doesn’t say no. Paul hugs his jacket closer to his chest, because autumn has come and the air has grown increasingly brisk during the night, and takes the detour, turning right towards Daryl’s house rather than continuing forward towards his own.

The steps creak horribly loud below his feet. For a moment, he wonders if they’ll shatter beneath his weight, but they never do. The chair he settles down in, thankfully, feels a lot more stable.

Daryl hands him the flask and Paul takes a gulp, almost immediately regretting the decision because it burns the whole way down. He coughs, throat aflame, and nearly drops the whole container.

When he returns it to its rightful owner, he finds a look of amusement written across Daryl’s face – one that makes him blush down to his toes.

“Lightweight,” Daryl huffs.

“I thought I drank gasoline for a second there,” Paul returns. “How do you enjoy that stuff?"

“Tasted worse,” Daryl tells him with a shrug. “Ain’t the taste that matters anyway.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. It matters a little.” Then again, he’s always been of the pickier sort when it came to food and drink. He was also one of those kids that went through both a ‘I won’t eat anything green’ phase and a ‘hardcore vegan’ phase when he reached college.

Daryl looks him straight in the eye and takes another drink from the flask. Paul barely stops himself from laughing. Let it be known that Daryl Dixon has a sense of humor, albeit, an odd one, but it is something regardless.

“You know what I miss – from before?” he begins, leaning back. “Strawberries.”

“Strawberries?” Daryl echoes.

“Mhm,” he agrees with a nod. “My grandmother had a garden full of them. I used visit her after I finished school to pick some. Always had a basket full of them in the fridge for the summer. They tried to grow some at Hilltop, but they never ripened. Or the bugs got to them.”

Wendy’s garden, unfortunately, paled in comparison to the one his grandmother built from scratch.

“You miss anything?” he asks the archer.

Daryl shrugs and tears his eyes away, staring ahead at something Paul can’t quite pinpoint.

“Didn’t have nothin’ to miss,” he mutters. It’s barely a whisper, and Paul wonders if the statement was meant for his ears at all.

He’s sure that’s not true. Otherwise, he doubts the man sitting beside him would even be here right now. He considers his words, considers rebutting that, but ultimately bites his tongue. What they were - the people they used to be before this - hardly matters now.

“I miss libraries too.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Daryl’s gaze flicker back to him. “And seafood.” He pauses, but decides to trudge forward. “I lived in San Francisco for the better half of a decade. There’s no place like that – not even before.”

He remembers being bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, visiting the Exploratorium for the first time. Even now, he can practically feel the crisp pages against his fingertips as he read through book after book at the San Francisco Public Library. The art on the walls that felt more like home than his own shoe-box apartment. That’s probably the closest he’ll ever get to paradise – he doesn’t even want to imagine how the Bay Area looks now.

“You got all the way out here from there?” Daryl asks him with a crinkled expression.

“God, no,” he answers, shaking his head. “Moved there after high school, moved back to Pennsylvania after I dropped out of college. Looking back at it now, maybe that was a good decision after all.”

Daryl takes another sip of his flask and averts his gaze back to the empty road in front of them.

“Shoulda known,” Daryl grumbles after a short pause.

“Huh?”

Daryl points at him and for the first time that night, he fumbles. “S’the hair.”

Even under the dim light, Paul can see the flush quickly spreading across Daryl’s face – like wildfire to a dry field.

“My hair?” he repeats incredulously. He can feel his brow reaching his hairline. Within his chest, bubbling laughter begins to build, threatening to pour through his lips at any moment. Barely – just barely – he holds it in.

“You look like a goddamn tree hugger, man,” Daryl mutters, taking another swig from the flask - as if to stop himself from saying anything else.

This time, Paul laughs. “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘hippie’,” he tells the archer. “Not that tree hugger doesn’t mean the same thing. And I don’t think I ever fit the description really well, to be quite honest.”

Daryl doesn’t appear convinced.

“You’re thinking of the people that would stand in front of the mayor’s office with picket signs,” he points out. “I never did that. On an average Friday night, you probably would’ve found me passed out next to a toilet. Or close to one, at least.”

Quite honestly, the closest he came to a “tree hugger” phase was during his brief stint as a vegan. Hell, he didn’t even start growing out his hair until he was well back into Pennsylvania and picking up odd side jobs. The “Jesus” moniker followed soon after.

He can tell that Daryl is surprised, even if his face doesn’t give much away. Everyone he’s told his old college stories to apparently didn’t expect tales of that sort from him. Sometimes, he supposes, it is enjoyable to watch their jaws drop to the floor – to catch them off guard if even for a few moments.

“I was much more interested in the party scene than the social justice one,” Paul sums up with a snort. It was probably one of the biggest reasons he flunked out of university – because being hung-over more often than not made studying increasingly difficult.

“And if there’s one thing that I have learned, it’s not to take a drink from a total stranger because it’s probably drugged.”

“Shit,” he hears Daryl mumble before the man scrubs a hand across his face.

“I found out the hard way. Thought I was dying at first.” Thankfully, his friends were decent enough to actually take him to the ER that night. The bill, however, was far less forgiving.

“Happened to m’brother a couple a’times,” Daryl eventually says.

“You have a brother?” Paul asks without thinking – because he didn’t know that. Daryl has never mentioned him once.

Daryl nods. “Merle.”

“Where is he now?”

Paul doesn’t expect an answer. He doesn’t get one either. One look at Daryl’s darkened expression is enough for him to put the pieces together.

After a minute or so passes by in complete silence, Daryl gets up from his seat.

“S’gettin’ late,” Daryl says. If he’s angry, Paul can’t tell from his tone. His voice is gruff as it usually is, but the added venom he half-expected – because he prodded a little too close to home – never materializes.

“Yeah,” Paul agrees thickly, climbing to his feet. His legs feel like lead. “I should be getting back then.”

The stairs feel even more precarious beneath his feet now, creaking with every step he takes. Thankfully, he returns to the gravel unharmed.

Before he walks away, down the dark lonely street, he stops and turns back. Daryl is still in the doorway, watching him with his arms crossed across his chest. As if he needs to be wary – as if a walker or one of the Saviors is about to jump out of the bushes and attack Paul.

“Goodnight, Daryl.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, he finds something curious next to his front door. It’s a simple basket – intricate enough to indicate that it was woven together before the dead started to rise. There’s a white cloth thrown over the top of it, concealing whatever lies inside.

Paul lowers down to his knees to get a closer look. He pushes the fabric aside and finds a heap of ripe strawberries filling the basket to the brim. They smell overwhelmingly sweet, like the ones he remembers eating as a child.

The smile that stretches across his face is honest and true, and the warmth it brings reaches down into his chest, into his stomach, until he feels like he’s floating, weightless and free.

 

* * *

  
_III. Now_

“You really didn’t have to do this,” he says after he scrounges through a bit of the muddled pile in the back of the truck.

“Wasn’t my idea,” Tara tells him with a grin. “Not that I’m not happy to do it but… It was Maggie’s idea. She said you probably missed some of your books, so we loaded most of them into the truck. Sorry, if we missed any though. There were a lot.”

He laughs. “Yeah. I had a library in the making back there.”

It isn’t until Tara steps away that Daryl stops at his side, staring down at him curiously. Paul hands him the book in his hand. Daryl takes it, looks at the cover, flips it open and lets his finger file through the pages in a quick succession before letting the thin cover fall shut once more.

“No pictures,” he mutters as he hands it back.

“Nope,” he agrees with a snort. “I remember reading this in high school. It was one of my favorites.” _The Great Gatsby_ novel remains in his hands only for a short time before he places it back on top of the abundant pile.

Daryl shrugs. He chews at his thumb nail like he does when he’s nervous. It’s one of Daryl’s quirks that Paul happened to notice one day and couldn’t stop noticing.

“Maggie always said my books were a fire hazard.”

“Yeah, I ‘member,” Daryl says with a scoff.

Sometimes, he forgets that Daryl has seen his trailer. The man slept on his couch for two days while he recovered, before he returned to Alexandria for the final time.

“Maybe I should build a bookshelf,” he mutters mostly to himself before he turns back to Daryl with a charming smile.

“Wanna help me carry all this back to my place, big guy?”

“What am I – a pack mule or somethin’?”

Daryl helps him carry every last stack back regardless.

 

* * *

  
“So, you ain’t goin’ back?” Daryl asks him while they’re sitting out on Paul’s porch that night, nursing two beers. It was out on this porch that Daryl pointed out the constellations to him close to a month ago, listing them off with ease. Paul didn’t know jack shit about stars, but apparently Daryl did.

“Why?” he says with a playful smile. “Would you miss me?”

Daryl takes a sip of his beer, appearing less than enthusiastic. It’s enough to sober Paul for a few moments. The last thing he wants is Daryl putting up his iron walls again.

“No,” he answers truthfully. “I’m not planning on it. Besides, I like it better here anyway. It’s…more spacious.”

Daryl scoffs.

“What? You don’t believe me. Is it really hard to believe – I mean, look at this place.” He points back to his own home. “It’s bigger than any house I’ve ever lived in.”

“It’s too big,” Daryl rasps.

That makes Paul pause because…well, he remembers what Daryl had said before, about the walls closing in on him. He doubts these big Victorian houses remind Daryl of his roots. He wonders if anyone living in Alexandria used to live in places like these.

“Did it feel too big when you were living with Rick and the others?”

Daryl doesn’t answer him. He doesn’t have to.

“It’s too big for one person,” Paul tells him. “Just takes some getting used to, is all.”

If there’s a fundamental difference between Paul Rovia and Daryl Dixon, it’s that Paul Rovia moves on with every passing day and doesn’t look back. Daryl Dixon, however, seems to still be battling the demons from his past. Paul will probably never know what they are, but what he does know is that the moment you stop moving forward is the moment this world will eat you alive.

When Paul looks at these houses, he thinks about all the people who wanted to move into neighborhoods like this and raise a family of their own. Paul doesn’t know what Daryl sees when he looks at these homes, but he knows that it’s very different from his perspective.

He downs the rest of his beer in one gulp before climbing to his feet. Daryl is staring up at him with a look Paul can’t quite decipher. It’s one that makes his chest flutter pleasantly though.

“I’m going to take a shower.” This time, he doesn’t hesitate when he asks, “Did you want to stay the night?”

Paul never hears a verbal answer but Daryl crushes the empty beer can in his hand, gets to his feet, and walks to the front door. It isn't until after he steps through the threshold that he comes to a gradual halt. He holds the door open and looks back, as if asking, ‘are you coming?’

With a small, knowing smile, Paul moves forward.

 

* * *

  
_IV. Then_

In hindsight, Paul’s return to the road isn’t entirely surprising. He’s never been good at staying in one place too long. Even in a desolate environment, the desperate need – the itch deep in his bones – to keep himself busy, to keep his mind from falling idle, is impossible to ignore.

Over the years, especially the year and a half he spent at Hilltop, he’s become accustomed to doing these things alone. The silence was always a welcome reprieve from the nosy people at Hilltop that seemed to have a recycled list of problems that they always went to Paul to sort out.

Alexandria, however, operates on an entirely different level. Alexandria is systematic and democratic whereas Hilltop was forced to surrender to Gregory’s cowardice up until recently. Under Maggie’s control, he imagines that Hilltop has flourished much like Alexandria has.

The only problem he has with Alexandria is a recent one. It’s the reason why he’s sitting in the passenger’s seat of a Subaru that could desperately use a wash with Daryl at the wheel.

Unlike Hilltop, Alexandria doesn’t allow him to go out on runs on his own.

 _“We go in pairs,”_ Rick had told him.

Logically, it makes sense. Because it’s far too easy to get yourself stuck in a precarious situation out there – and it’s a whole lot worse when you’re out there by yourself.

Sometimes, unfortunately, logic isn’t enough to sway him. In this case, he’s still silently fuming. Because he’d rather not have something go wrong and someone else, Daryl in this case, have to carry that weight. It’s a burden that is too heavy for many to bear. And he knows the archer blames himself for what happened to Glenn – hell, Paul blames himself for their group ever getting mixed in with the Saviors because without him, without Hilltop, Glenn and Abraham would still be alive.

And he’d prefer to avoid something like that happening again, at all costs.

The prospect of dying has never scared him. It’s what he’ll leave behind that does.

“Yer awfully quiet,” Daryl eventually mutters as he weaves the vehicle through a highway littered with walkers and abandoned cars.

“Could be because I don’t have much to say.” Contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t talk at all hours of the day. Most of the time, he’d rather be tucked away with a good book.

“Heard what you an’ Rick talked about,” Daryl continues.

“It doesn’t bear repeating,” he mutters. “Look, I get it – it’s the way you guys do things around here. But I’m perfectly capable of protecting myself. I’ve been doing runs by myself for years and the worst I got was a twisted ankle. I think I’ll be fine.”

“M’not sayin’ you can’t protect yourself,” Daryl practically snarls. “I know ya can. But shit happens. ‘Member when you got slapped upside the head by the truck door – you woulda been walker bait if we weren’t there.”

He wouldn’t have been knocked out by the truck door if Daryl and Rick hadn’t chased him. The van full of food wouldn’t have fallen into the lake either.

Paul doesn’t feel like fighting, so he bites his tongue. He leans against the window, propped up on his elbow, watching the scenery pass by. Unfortunately, it’s mostly rotting bodies and crumbled leaves.

The rest of the ride is silent but for the occasional groan from outside.

 

* * *

  
The convenience store is small in comparison to the ones he used to search. But the smaller size typically signifies that it was passed up more often than not. Thus, he’s the one to tell Daryl to slow down – they’ll search here. They’ve got enough daylight to make a pit stop. It’ll take ten – twenty minutes at most.

When they get out of the SUV, weapons raised, they find only a few stragglers. Three of them no longer have functioning legs, plastered to the ground while they desperately reach for anything within sight. The other two are slow-moving and Daryl takes them out with ease.

He’s seen Daryl use his crossbow a good number of times but he still hasn’t gotten used to seeing him pull an arrow from a walker’s head. Even now, it makes his stomach swim unpleasantly. The blood isn’t what gets to him – because he wouldn’t last long if it did – but the revolting wet crunch the arrow makes whenever it’s yanked from bone does take his mind to places he’d rather continue to forget.

This time, he forces himself to look away. The sound, nonetheless, remains unchanged.

The windows are surprisingly intact. When he peers through, he sees a shelf that doesn’t appear completely desolate. Instantly, a small block of bright colors captures his attention. Probably snack food, but a bag of chips is better than nothing. Unfortunately, he’s too far to get a good look, but the glimpse alone is enough to make him search for the door.

“S’locked,” Daryl says, gesturing to the heavy chains wrapped around the rectangular handles.

Paul considers just breaking one of the windows, but decides against it when he recalls the abundance of noise they heard on the way here. The dead travel in herds and what he heard in those woods sounded a lot like one. It doesn’t take much to attract them.

“Guess we’ll just have to find another way in then.” He glances to his left and finds what looks to be an alleyway next the store. Perhaps, there’s another door – a back entrance.

He doesn’t think.

He just goes.

That proves to be a disastrous mistake.

He finds the other door with ease, stationed inches away from a large ill-smelling dumpster. And he quickly realizes that it’s unlocked because the knob twists beneath his fingers. He can hear Daryl catching up with him and turns to the archer with a wide grin on his face.

The words die on his tongue.

Pure horror. That’s the only way he can describe the look on Daryl’s face in that moment. Paul’s stomach curls in on itself, and he can feel the bile rising in his throat within that split second because he _knows_.

But he doesn’t have enough time to react when bony fingers reach for his jacket and jerk him back. Teeth sink into his left bicep like a steel lock and Paul can’t hold back the terrified yelp that escapes his lips. Oh, God, he thinks, it hurts. It hurts more than he thought it would, like a thousand needles puncturing his skin in unison – but the pain is short-lived because Daryl lurches forward, hunting knife in hand, and thrusts the tool right into the walker’s skull.

Paul stumbles back, holding his arm. Watches helplessly as Daryl stomps his boot into the walker’s head again and again, until there’s nothing left but a trail of tissue and blood. He can’t feel his feet – he can’t feel anything but his goddamn arm that burns like a thousand suns.

“Daryl,” he manages to stutter out. Daryl doesn’t seem to hear him. But Paul can still hear that sickening crunch echoing in his ears.

His mind registers that Daryl’s mouth is moving – cursing up a storm, but the words don’t quite sink in. He bears witness to a thousand emotions opening up right in front of him, like a floodgate that he can’t hope to close.

“Daryl,” he says again, louder this time.

Finally, Daryl stops. His head turns to him, eyes wide, red, and glassy, before he takes a shaky step forward. His hands hover close to him, but never touch. As if Daryl doesn’t know what he can and can’t touch. What he should and shouldn’t do.

“We…we can cut it off,” Daryl suggests, voice hoarse. He sounds so lost that it makes Paul’s heart sink. “It worked – before.”

No, he immediately thinks. He’d probably succumb to blood loss because Daryl doesn’t know anything of substance about first aid. Neither does Paul.

Without a tourniquet, he’d bleed out right here within the hour.

“Lemme see,” Daryl says, pulling gently at Paul’s good hand.

His arm aches. But Daryl’s eyes grow even wider when he looks at Paul’s hand. And then he’s clawing at Paul’s coat with a desperation he’s never quite seen before, brows knit together and lips pursed in a firm line as he pushes the garment down Paul’s shoulders. The sleeve of his shirt is shoved as far up as it can go before a warm, callused digit runs across his bicep, making him flinch. There’s no blood on Daryl’s hand when he pulls back.

Paul feels his neck straining with how fast his head snaps down, searching for any sign of blood on his skin. There isn’t a tear of skin. There isn’t a speck of red. All that’s on his arm is a nasty bruise that will probably bloom by tomorrow.

“Holy shit,” he breathes out. “Holy shit. It didn’t break the skin.”

He’s not a dead man walking.

The relief is brief because before he can say anything more, he hears a groan. And another. And another. It takes him a second too long to remember the herd, to panic – but Daryl’s instincts kick in. He yanks Paul into the convenience store, through the secondary entrance Paul had just found, before shutting and locking it behind them.

There’s a large, heavy box with some sort of machinery inside it that Daryl hurriedly pushes in front of the door. Meanwhile, Paul looks back out to the windows, towards the trees and sure enough, he can already see the more able-bodied walkers appearing from the forest.

Paul scans the room, looks for a way out or, at least, for a place to hide. There’s a door in the back. He prays to whatever god that's listening that this one isn’t locked.

“Daryl, come on,” he says, urging the archer away the makeshift barricade.

The door isn’t locked.

Paul is the one to practically slam the heavy door shut behind them, reassuring that the lock is in place before taking a shuddering breath. Daryl’s chest is heaving as well – and he begins to pace around, impatient. Like a live wire ready to snap.

The room they’re in looks to be the leftovers of a storage area. The shelves are stacked, more organized than most stores nowadays, and when he wanders over and checks a box, he pulls out a bag of Doritos.

All this for a bag of fucking chips. He opens it and can’t help but find the irony of it all – because the chips are completely and utterly tasteless and stale.

He crumbles it up and drops it back into the box. If he can’t enjoy, he might as well leave it for the ants. They certainly aren’t picky.

“We’ll stay in here for awhile,” he says as he scopes out the otherwise barren room. “They’ll lose interest in us…eventually.”

He turns back to Daryl when the silence lingers on for too long. The man has stopped pacing, but his expression is twisted into something that makes Paul’s blood freeze in his veins. The last time he saw a look like that was when Daryl beat one of the Saviors over the head with an iron rod.

Daryl’s entire body goes rigid, like something feral and vicious, ready to explode at any given moment. He stomps two paces closer, stops when he’s towering over Paul.

“I can protect myself, huh?” Daryl snaps, making Paul wince – because Daryl’s voice is too loud. “By what – gettin’ yer arm ripped off!”

“Keep your voice down,” Paul says through gritted teeth, but Daryl clearly isn’t listening.

A finger jabs roughly against his chest. Paul stumbles back a step. The last thing he wants right now is a fight. There are too many variables, too many things that can go wrong while they’re trapped in here.

“I ain’t keepin’ nothin’ down! We wouldn’t be in here if it weren’t for ya runnin’ off like a dumbass!” Daryl’s yelling now, his voice breaking, echoing off the walls. If the walkers hadn’t heard them before, they definitely heard them now.

“Daryl, I’m–”

Two hands push roughly at his chest, shoving him back. Paul nearly crumbles to the ground, grimacing at the shot of pain running up his arm as he barely catches his footing. He wraps a hand around his aching limb, swallowing down the frustration.

This isn’t the place to lose control, he tells himself.

Anywhere but here.

The guilt is palpable, clear on Daryl’s face. Like the anger just melted off and the rest of it hit him upside the head. No matter how much Daryl tries to hide it, it has become painfully clear how deep the archer’s emotions run. He is human, just as everyone is, but Paul has seen these sorts of people again and again – the ones that bury everything under layers and layers of anger, resentment, and callousness.

_“If I don’t care, it can’t hurt me.”_

No, Paul thinks, it still hurts.

Daryl inhales sharply, pivoting on his heel until his back faces Paul. For a moment, Paul wonders if he’s going to run, take his chances with the walkers, but he never progresses towards the door. Instead, he quickly drops himself to the floor, hunched forward slightly, one leg out in front of him and the other tucked against his chest. Paul can’t see his face, but he can see the quiet tremors in his shoulders.

Wordlessly, Paul steps close, taking a seat on the cold, dirty floor. He brings his knees close to his chest, lays his aching arm against them, waiting for the pain to dwindle down to a mere whisper. Carefully, he leans back, until his back is against Daryl’s. He can feel every tremor, every shaky breath, _everything_.

His hand slides against the tile, inching back smooth and quiet until his fingers bump against Daryl’s. He hesitates, giving Daryl a chance to pull away, but the archer never does. So, Paul takes a chance and lays his hand over the other man’s, feeling the bones of his knuckles and a dozen tiny scars against his palm.

And then Daryl’s hand moves. Paul thinks he’s pulling away at first, but he feels warm, callused fingers wrapping around the side of his hand, dipping through the gaps. Pulling. Holding tight. Paul presses his fingers back, taking a deep breath of his own before he looks up to the lone window situated at the ceiling.

The sun smiles down at him.

 

* * *

  
_V. Now_

 _“I’ll come by later,”_ Daryl had told him. Apparently, Tara had asked if he could cover her shift at the gate sometime during the day. Whatever date plans Paul had mapped out were basically left on the back-burner.

Paul isn’t upset.

Unexpected things do come up and disrupt plans, more often than not it feels like. Still, laying in bed – even with one of the books brought here from Hilltop sitting within his hands – he can’t help that twinge of loneliness that grips his chest. The blankets are cold no matter how long he stays beneath them, and he has too much legroom. It reminds him of before, when he would fall asleep to nothing but the groans of the undead outside, or when he would hear the quiet murmurs of the townspeople just outside his trailer, wondering if it’s too early to wake him.

Here, in Alexandria, all he hears is silence.

It’s unbearable. Stifling, even.

He doesn’t have a clock in his room, so he doesn’t know what time it is when his eyes begin to slip shut. The only thing keeping him company in his dreams is the starry night sky that sits open and welcome.

The thing is, in the new world, it doesn’t take much to jolt him awake. Fear is second-nature to him, so primal and basic that he has already begun to forget what life was like without it.

“Sorry,” a familiar voice rasps when Paul jerks up.

Daryl is staring down at him, _The Great Gatsby_ held firmly in his right hand. There is an amused glint in his eye.

“No, it’s fine,” Paul manages out. His throat feels scratchy – God, he hopes he isn’t coming down with something. “Must’ve fallen asleep.”

The bedside light is still turned on, supporting his assumption. Paul flops back down on his pillow with a tired groan. He rubs a hand over his eyes, hoping the motion will ease the exhaustion from his bones. Unfortunately, he can still feel himself slowly drifting off.

Daryl doesn’t say anything. He places the book next to the lamp before he takes a seat on the edge of the bed. Paul notices that his hair is hanging down in damp strands. Without a word, he reaches up and runs his hand through those wet locks. His hair is colder than he would’ve thought.

“Rained on me out there,” Daryl explains after he notices Paul’s curious gaze.

“Last of the season, hopefully,” he says with a small smile.

Daryl scoffs. “Doubt it.”

Paul hums and lets his hand drop back down to the mattress.

“So much for date night.”

“Tomorrow,” Daryl tells him.

“Can’t, I’m helping Eric with inventory,” Paul reminds him. Something clicks in his head. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, Aaron invited us over for dinner. Said I’d check with you before I made any promises.”

“They cookin’?”

Paul snorts. “Of course.”

The last time Paul attempted a meal from scratch he nearly set his kitchen on fire. Needless to say, cooking had never been his calling in life. Unfortunately, it’s a lot less easy and convenient to survive on microwaveable meals alone these days.

“So, wanna go?”

Daryl shrugs. “I guess.”

“I’ll RSVP in the morning, then,” Paul teases with a growing grin. He then tugs at Daryl’s vest. “Now, take these wet clothes off and get into bed. There’s stuff in the bottom drawer you can borrow.” He nods at the wooden bureau just a few feet away.

Daryl mutters something under his breath, but he climbs to his feet without delay and pulls off his vest and then his tattered button-up. The scars stretch and coil with every twist of his upper body and Paul averts his gaze, knowing full well that Daryl wouldn’t appreciate the staring.

The drawer is pulled open with a clattering knock and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Daryl pull out something black. The archer turns to him with an odd look on his face.

“Stealin’ my shirts now?” There is a simple black T-shirt being waved between Daryl’s fingers, two sizes too large to be Paul’s.

“Maybe,” he answers. To be honest, there are a few of Daryl’s shirts scattered amongst his own clothes – not including the one he talked Daryl into giving him after the older man ruined one of Paul’s.

Daryl shakes his head with a scoff and tugs the garment over his head, pulling the thin fabric over his scars. The sweats he chooses, however, are clearly Paul’s because they’re too snug against his hips and too short on his ankles.

“You could always sleep naked, you know,” Paul reminds Daryl as he climbs under the covers. “I definitely wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course ya wouldn’t,” Daryl mumbles. He lays an arm over their heads, stretched across the pillow, beckoning Paul close. Paul complies without a single complaint, rolling into Daryl’s side with ease. An arm rubs over his clothed back, coming to rest just below his ribs.

“Turn the light off,” Paul says as he closes his eyes.

Cloth and muscle stretch beneath his cheek as Daryl reaches over and switches the simple lamp off, allowing the bedroom to sink into a familiar darkness.

This time, though, Paul isn’t cold.

 

* * *

  
_VI. Then_

The knock on his door comes as an unexpected surprise. He wracks his brain, trying to piece together who it may be only to come up with more questions than before. Paul sighs, folds the towel he was using to dry his hair over his shoulders, and pads to the front door.

There, on his welcome mat, stands none other than Daryl Dixon.

Admittedly, Paul’s brain short-circuits because this was the last thing he ever expected. The last time he and Daryl even held any sort of conversation was shortly before his near-death experience. That had been nearly a week ago.

Paul doesn’t want to know how long he stood there, slack-jawed, like a dying fish gasping for breath.

“Hey,” Daryl eventually mutters, breaking the silence. Daryl isn’t meeting his eyes, staring at something over his shoulder instead.

“Um,” Paul stutters with wince. “Hi.” He notices that Daryl’s hair is damp and that the man’s worn clothes have similar droplets staining their normally dry surface.

How long did Daryl stand out there?

“Come in,” Paul says when he finally gets his wits back about him. “I’ll get you a towel to dry off with.”

When he returns to the living room, he sees Daryl standing awkwardly next to the end of the sofa, like he’s unsure whether or not it’s appropriate to take a seat. His crossbow is situated on his shoulder, and Paul can’t help but wonder if he came straight here after his watch.

“Here.” Paul tosses him the towel and Daryl catches it with ease. He mostly uses it to dry his hands and his face. Paul snickers to himself, because there is something unmistakably humorous about this whole situation.

“So, why’d you come by?” Paul comes out and asks.

Daryl shrugs, once again averting his eyes.

Paul wouldn’t be surprised if this ends up being a mostly one-sided conversation. Daryl has never been a talker, even when the time calls for it.

Wordlessly, he ambles to the kitchen to keeps his hands busy. He doesn’t think rambling on about nothing in particular is an attractive option to Daryl – it would probably do more harm than good. But standing there, saying and doing nothing, sounds even more gauche.

“How’s yer arm?” he hears Daryl finally ask.

“Fine,” he answers back with a small smile. “Just a little bruised, is all.”

Is that why Daryl’s here? He is… _worried_ about Paul?

“Sorry for yellin’ at ya back there,” Daryl says after a long-winded pause.

This time, Paul’s hands freeze. He is pretty certain that this is the first time he has ever heard Daryl apologize. The first time he’s seen the man look quite so guilty – since their war with the Saviors, at least. Did he think…?

Daryl looks down at him when Paul stops at his side. There is an undeniable flutter in his chest and Paul does his best to shove that down. Unfortunately, that feeling only increases ten-fold when he places a hesitant hand on Daryl’s clothed arm. It feels warm and solid beneath the pads of his fingers. Daryl doesn’t pull away.

“Sit down, Daryl,” he says, keeping his voice light. “You’re making me nervous standing here in the corner. Do you want a glass of water or anything?”

Daryl stares at him quietly.

“Nah,” he finally grumbles, stepping forward and away from Paul’s hand. He takes an abrupt seat on Paul’s sofa.

Paul eventually follows suit and sits in one of the recliners. For the first time that night, he feels self-conscious. Daryl is sitting across from him looking like something ripped out of a magazine while Paul still has wet hair, a stained shirt with a hole in its hem, baggy sweatpants, and bare feet. It’s quite a contrast that would’ve been funny in any other scenario.

He can’t even remember the last time he felt this way.

There is a deck of cards on the coffee table that sits between them. They’re not his – because those ended up being yet another casualty of war, probably somewhere on the forest floor – but he did find this deck in one of the house’s drawers shortly after he made himself at home. He never actually thought about using them until now.

“Wanna play?” he asks, nodding at the deck.

Daryl follows his gaze and shrugs halfheartedly.

“Don’t got nowhere else to be.”

 

* * *

  
_VII. Now_

Going on a run without Daryl had been difficult. By difficult he means that it was incredibly exasperating to try and convince the archer that he could protect himself just fine. Daryl’s concerns were valid by all means, but a simple run less than five miles from Alexandria wasn’t the most likely to spell out his demise. He hadn’t even gone alone – Tara and Aaron both tagged along. He wasn’t completely defenseless and just as he expected, he returns to Alexandria unharmed but for a single scrape on his elbow.

The first thing he does is return home to take a quick shower and wash out the walker grime that splashed into his hair. He shakes out the excess water with a towel before he ties the messy strands back into a bun, where they won’t drip on every surface imaginable.

Daryl isn’t waiting for him at his house, so he takes that to mean that Daryl is probably sulking in his own home. Paul makes sure to take Daryl’s favorite brand of whiskey with him before he heads towards Daryl’s residence.

There is a commotion coming from within the rickety walls that he hears as he wanders up to Daryl’s door. Every hair on his body stands up on end. He finds himself closing in on quick feet, practically slamming his fist into the wooden slab.

“Daryl?” he calls out. There is a hint of panic in his voice that he doesn’t even stop to consider concealing.

A million different possibilities run through his head. An intruder certainly couldn’t have gotten through Rosita without some sort of warning being issued. Walkers haven’t snuck through in ages. But someone could’ve passed away inside and turned. How would they have managed to get inside of Daryl’s house though? Why would it have even been a struggle? Daryl always carries that big hunting knife in his boot.

The door opens without preamble and Paul nearly stumbles face first. He manages to regain his footing and finds Daryl staring down at him with an odd expression. Dare he say, Daryl looks…sheepish.

“Hi,” he says, dumbly. He chews on his lower lip. “What was that noise?”

Daryl stiffens. “Nothin’,” the man answers far too quickly.

Paul raises an eyebrow. “Nothing, huh?”

He waves the bottle of whiskey, mostly as a diversion now. “Brought your favorite.”

Daryl still seems nervous. He’s shut the door behind him and won’t meet Paul’s prying eyes for more than a few seconds, which is weird to say the very least. At this point, Daryl would have let him inside by now. That’s how this normally goes.

“You holding out on me now, Dixon?” he inquires with a teasing lilt. “Got a mistress I don’t know about?”

It is a simple joke, something he blurted out without thinking it through. Based on Daryl’s mildly horrified expression, he guesses that the archer found it much less humorous.

“No,” Daryl practically snaps.

“Sorry,” he says almost immediately. “It was a joke.” Albeit, not a very good one, but a joke nonetheless.

Daryl doesn’t appear impressed in the slightest. Paul takes a step forward and plants a chaste kiss on Daryl’s cheek, hoping it’ll placate him a little. Daryl doesn’t shove him away.

“Can I come in?” Sometimes, straightforward is a bit more effective. Paul figured out pretty quick that Daryl isn’t a fan of any sort of trickery, wicked or playful.

Finally, Daryl opens the door, motioning for Paul to go through. Nothing appears out of the ordinary at first. He kicks off his shoes as Daryl shuts the door again and steps towards the den.

When Paul’s eyes finally notice the wooden mess on the floor, he freezes. It isn’t complete, but it is rather obvious what the structure is going to be.

A bookshelf.

Daryl is building him a bookshelf.

“Is this the project you’ve been working on?” Paul asks – because he remembers when Daryl mentioned he was busy with something after Paul asked why he couldn’t come to dinner a handful of times.

“It didn’t come with instructions,” Daryl tells him instead, bringing his thumb to his mouth. “Woulda been done earlier if it had.” There’s a pause. “It was missin’ a piece, too.”

The first thing he thinks is that he loves it.

And then, _I love you_. It is a quiet echo in the back of his head, but it screams louder than thunder in his ears.

That revelation hits him like a ton of bricks. He loves Daryl Dixon with every fiber of his being and that thought is absolutely _terrifying_. Love in this world, where everything gets torn away at the flip of a coin, is something that has become both temporary and permanent, a strength and a weakness. People come and go and there’s very little any of them can do about that. The walkers, the bad people – brutal like the Saviors, savage like the Wolves, and cowards like Gregory – aren’t ever going to become a thing of the past.

They’ll always exist.

People are transient in a world like this.

Love, however, is anything but. It endures, even in death.

Paul has lost people before. Everyone has, of course. Merely daring to think about losing Daryl – just the bare idea of waking up in world without that wonderful man – makes his mind nearly tear itself apart stitch by stitch.

As he’s come to realize, he can’t picture what his life would be like without Daryl in it. Somehow, while Paul wasn’t looking, Daryl had wormed his way close – took down Paul’s hidden but guarded walls one inch at a time, until he wrapped himself around every aspect of Paul’s existence like a warm blanket.

A wise man once said that existing is easy, but living is hard. Finally, Paul thinks he knows what that old man meant when he uttered those last words. Living with the possibility of losing everything that you hold dear – it’d almost be easier to not care at all.

But when he looks at Daryl, the red flush across the bridge of his nose, the anxious twist of his mouth, he’s helpless to that feeling engulfing his chest. The sheer power of it, how quickly it takes hold, almost reminds him of drowning. He knows he can’t fight it. He knows that he doesn’t want to.

“I love it,” he tells Daryl.

 _I love you,_ he can’t quite say. Not yet.

But he will. One day, he’ll tell Daryl those three little words.

Just not today.

“Thank you.”

Daryl smiles, the barest upturn of the corners of his lips. He looks relieved.

It sparks something in Paul’s gut, and the sensation travels down his spine like a fast-spreading virus. It makes him feel like maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay.

Paul puts the whiskey down on the kitchen counter before surging up to meet Daryl’s lips halfway. Those strong hands wrap around him, warm and safe, and hold him there until he’s fighting for oxygen.

He pulls away first, and rests his forehead against Daryl’s. He waits until he feels like he can breathe again, lets those fingers wander beneath his shirt to scrape down his back, leaving a trail of delicious heat in their wake.

“You wanna take a break?” he asks.

Daryl doesn’t get any more done that evening.

Instead, he presses another soft kiss to Paul’s lips. There are a thousand words put into that simple motion, most of which Paul doesn’t quite understand. But, there isn’t a doubt in his mind that Daryl doesn’t feel the same about him – at least in some capacity. Daryl wouldn’t be here, kissing him gently, if he felt differently.

“Bedroom?” Paul speaks up when he shifts back. His lips feel bruised and tingly, almost numb.

His fingers are tightly wrapped in the collar of Daryl’s flannel, threatening to tear the buttons from the seams. He doesn’t want to let go. Not ever, he thinks as he rises up on his toes to drag his teeth against Daryl’s jaw. Beneath his ministrations, he feels Daryl’s skin practically vibrate, hears a rough curse leave Daryl’s lips. It goes straight to his groin.

Together, they stumble their way up the staircase, breathing hard against one another. The wood creaks beneath Paul’s feet, beneath the weight of Daryl’s boots, but he can barely hear it over the thundering roar of his own heartbeat.

Paul feels himself being pushed against the wall the second they reach Daryl’s bedroom, not hard enough to hurt, but it is enough to snatch the remaining oxygen from his chest. Not long after, Daryl bends back down to slot his lips against Paul’s, licking into his mouth. Paul kisses back, shoves his hand into Daryl’s hair and yanks – the way he knows Daryl likes – earning a surprised gasp from his partner. Daryl moves from his mouth to his neck, the scrape of his teeth rough against the smooth skin there. Paul knows it’ll leave a mark or two.

Daryl’s hand pushes beneath his thigh, silently commanding. Paul follows his lead and wraps one leg around Daryl’s waist, feeling a familiar hardness brush against him. And then Daryl is tugging at his other leg and Paul pauses.

“Sure you can hold me up?” he asks. It comes out much weaker than he intended.

Daryl pulls back, frowning.

“Not that old,” he mutters back.

Paul stares him straight in the eye as he raises his other leg and folds it around Daryl’s waist. The man holds him up, Paul’s shirt lifting an inch or two against the wall, but he never feels himself wobble.

“Shit, that’s really hot,” Paul blurts out without thinking.

The smirk that slowly stretches across Daryl’s lips is absolutely fiendish and Paul can’t help but lean forward and kiss him again. And again. And again. Until his lungs feel like they’re about to pop from the lack of air.

He doesn’t know how long he’s against that wall, kissing Daryl’s mouth until the man’s lips are bruised and tired, grinding against him slow and leisurely. The heat begins in his gut, growing and rising up like a winding vine, coiling around everything in its wake.

Daryl pulls back. “If ya keep that up, I dunno if we’ll make it to the bed.”

“Then take me to bed, Prince Charming,” he says with a laugh.

He expects Daryl to let him down, pull him to the bed by hand, but he finds himself being twisted and turned, so quick that it takes him off guard. They crumble against the bed, tangled against one another, not quite willing to let go. Daryl has him caged in against him, fingers sneaking up the front of Paul’s shirt, palm flat against his skin as Daryl drags it up Paul’s abdomen, coming to rest against his chest.

“Fuck,” he stutters out.

Paul manages to push Daryl back long enough to sit up and pull his own shirt up over his head. Daryl has seen him undressed countless times but he somehow seems surprised every time, eyes blown wide and lips slack. His gaze darkens as his eyes take it all in, as he closes in on Paul, slowly pushing him back down against the mattress.

Those soft lips close in on his clavicle; drag down by the teeth until he is pressing them against Paul’s nipple. His thumb comes to rest on the other, rubbing at the little nub.

“Shit. Daryl,” he gasps out when Daryl thrusts up against his thigh. Daryl kisses down his abdomen, his confidence seeming to swell more and more with every little twitch and moan. His hands grapple with Paul’s belt and it takes Paul a moment to realize what exactly is happening.

He props himself on his elbows. Admittedly, he’s still catching his breath.

“Daryl?” The archer glances up at him. “Are you sure?”

While Paul has done this countless times – to Daryl and others over the years – Daryl has not. The fact that Daryl has taken any initiative shocks him. He still remembers quite clearly how shy and timid Daryl was their first few times. How his fingers would shake. Paul had to lead him through it, had to show him where he liked to be touched and kissed, where he could put his hands.

“Yeah,” Daryl answers, voice rough like sandpaper as he pulls Paul’s belt through the loops agonizingly slow. And then the button snaps – Paul knows this because he hears it. Feels Daryl’s hand wrapping around him–

He collapses back down with a shuddering gasp, clutching the sheets between his fingers. Daryl begins tugging at Paul’s jeans and he shifts his hips up, allowing Daryl to drag the layers from his legs. He lets Daryl return to the V between his thighs, eyes falling shut when a warm breath fans against his cock.

“Dunno what to do…” Daryl tells him, sounding unsure for the first time. His lips close over the tip, hesitant but hot all the same. Fingers wrap around the base, just holding him there. Paul does his best to keep still.

“Just…hollow your cheeks,” Paul manages to stammer out. “Less teeth – yeah, like that. Oh, fuck.” He sees spots in his vision when Daryl finally takes him in his mouth. Both hands comb through Daryl’s hair as the man rises up for a moment only to swallow him down into that wet heat a second later.

His legs tremble, knees knocking against Daryl. He raises his head just long enough for Daryl’s eyes to find his own and watch, helplessly, as Daryl takes him down into that wet heat again.

“Oh, God, Daryl.” His gut coils into something tight and familiar. “M’gonna come.”

He pulls at Daryl’s hair again, more urgent than before, beckoning him up. Daryl releases him with a wet ‘pop’, frowning as Paul takes his face between his hands.

“Was it bad?” Daryl asks. “You didn’t…”

“No, it was good,” he reassures him quickly. “Really, really good.”

Paul presses a kiss to Daryl’s lips and tastes himself. When he pulls back, Daryl is still wearing a worried expression. Like he thinks he did something wrong.

“Still wanna ride you,” he reminds him. He kisses the column between Daryl’s ear and shoulder. “Wanna come on your cock, baby.”

“Fuck,” Daryl says, voice a low rumble.

Paul begins working on the buttons of Daryl’s shirt while the man mouths at his neck again. Teeth work against the tendons lining his skin, growing more and more impatient with every passing second. Paul can feel his own mind growing hazier as well, close to ripping Daryl’s shirt off as his fingers shake against the crooked line of buttons. Eventually, he undoes the final button on Daryl’s chest.

Daryl shrugs the garments – the shirt and the vest – off with ease. He is still sucking marks into Paul’s skin, so Paul lets his own hands wander. Down Daryl’s broad chest, over his sculpted arms, down the back that he knows is scarred.

His fingers find Daryl’s belt and slips it off without preamble, letting it tumble to floor with a loud ‘clack’. He lightly shoves Daryl away before he reaches into the drawer, where he knows Daryl keeps everything. Sure enough, the bottle of lube and the box of condoms are lying there in the corner. He tosses them on the bed.

“Want you to do it,” he tells Daryl as he lies back and spreads his legs again.

One thing he has learned over the course of their six months together is how good Daryl is with his fingers. There have been a handful of instances where Paul came on Daryl’s fingers alone, and nothing else. He should’ve known, he thinks. Daryl is always sucking on them.

Daryl opens him up nice and slow, kisses him through the uncomfortable stretch. He waits until he has three fingers sliding in and out with ease before he finally leans back and unbuttons his jeans.

“Take ‘em off,” Paul says as he sits up.

It isn’t until Daryl is standing there before him, naked, cock straining against his abdomen, that he tugs the man back to the bed and directs him to lie against the pillows. Paul straddles him, grabs the condom, and rolls it over Daryl’s leaking prick. He swathes a layer of lube over him before he strokes him once, twice – leaving Daryl to scramble helplessly beneath him.

Paul sinks down slowly, taking him in inch by inch, watching with wide blown eyes as Daryl’s mouth drops open. Daryl bottoms out and the stretch, although not painful, is initially uncomfortable.

“Give me a second.” He rubs a hand over Daryl’s stomach, feeling the man’s heaving breaths stuttering beneath the pads of his fingers. Daryl’s hands come to rest against his hips. He can feel the archer’s fingers trembling.

He shifts, knees planted on the mattress, hips moving slowly and carefully, eyes glued to the archer’s face. Daryl twitches beneath him as Paul rises up. When he sinks back down, he hears Daryl gasp. The man’s fingers grapple at his hips, desperate for some sort of leverage, some means of control.

Slowly, he finds a rhythm. One that makes Daryl frantic and restless, one that makes him curse and makes Paul gasp when Daryl’s cock finds that spot inside him. His whole body shakes, legs nearly buckling beneath him.

“Oh, shit, Daryl. I…I can’t.”

Paul leans forward, grips the headboard with clammy fingers, lets Daryl bend his knees and slam up into him. The bed creaks loudly with the movement, cracking against the wall. Daryl rocks against him, hitting that spot again and again, until Paul feels himself quickly coming undone.

Daryl pushes him away and slips out of him, leaving Paul feeling incredibly empty. His head rolls into the pillow as Daryl shifts their positions and wraps Paul’s legs around his waist. He steadies himself and slowly pushes back in. It doesn’t take him long to hit just the right angle – the one that makes Paul see stars. His thighs only clamp tighter around Daryl’s waist, trying to pull him even closer.

He can feel himself getting close as he grapples with the sheets and practically yells out Daryl’s name, as Daryl leans forward and licks into his mouth. Daryl’s large, callused hand wraps around his cock and strokes him in tandem with his thrusts, until Paul feels like his spine is about to break in two, until his vocal chords feel like they’re going to shatter.

Paul comes with a shout, the arch in his back almost painful. The heat is powerful and overwhelming, flowing through him until every muscle in his body feels like goo. Until his mind becomes a pleasant, white slate.

Daryl strokes him through it, still rocking into Paul unsteadily. He’s close, Paul thinks. Daryl moves against him erratically, thighs trembling against Paul’s knees. Paul raises a weak leg and loosely drapes it around Daryl’s back, heel pressing into the man’s tailbone, urging him on.

He can tell when Daryl comes because the man’s mouth always goes limp and the same raucous groan slips past his lips. A sound Paul always seems to hear in his dreams now. The archer doesn’t pull out right away. Instead, he eventually slumps against him, face resting in the crook of Paul’s neck.

They are both still struggling for air, heaving against one another, but Paul comes down first. He combs his fingers through Daryl’s hair, placing fleeting kisses against his head until Daryl finally rolls off him.

“Oh my god,” he breathes out.

He hears Daryl snort next to him. Paul rolls his eyes and smacks him lightly on the chest before turning on his side. Daryl’s head is angled towards him. His hair looks like a storm blazed through it, but there’s a glow to him that wasn’t there before. Paul imagines that he doesn’t look much different.

A thumb gently pulls at his lips. Paul meets Daryl halfway this time.

Paul doesn’t go home that night. Daryl’s bed is too warm and comfortable for him to even consider moving. The man in question is pressed against Paul’s back this time, breath fanning against the nape of his neck. The hand resting against his waist is limp and dormant, but that doesn’t stop Paul from tangling their fingers together.

Is that place really home, he wonders that night before he falls asleep. Or is home wherever Daryl is?

 

* * *

  
_VIII. Then_

It feels odd to go from blatantly avoiding someone to nearly being attached at the hip to said person. A couple rounds of gin and whatever reservations Daryl had about him must’ve evaporated overnight. That’s the only way Paul can explain why, less than two weeks later, they’re sitting together up on the watchtower, beneath the vibrant autumn sunset.

A whiff of smoke meets Paul’s nose every now and again, each time Daryl lights a cigarette and takes a drag that dissipates with the wind. He is comfortable, he realizes. The tension between them feels like nothing more than a distant memory now, replaced by something that Paul can’t quite pinpoint.

He isn’t stupid. He doesn’t deny the way his skin tingles whenever Daryl so much as pats him on the shoulder to get his attention. And he definitely can’t deny the flip his heart does when he’s on the receiving end of one of Daryl’s stares – the ones that aren’t snarling and angry, or practically daring him to make one wrong move. No, it’s the looks he gets when Daryl doesn’t think he notices, drawn long and nearly hidden beneath a mop of hair. The ones where he is quick to chew on his thumb when Paul finally turns his head.

From an objective standpoint, Paul has considered it. Hell, the thought first popped into his head when he was sitting on Rick Grimes’ staircase with a half dozen guns pointed at him. He took a good, long look and Daryl and thought, well, he does have nice arms. Pretty eyes too, he decided when he was sitting at a table with two familiar faces and a variety of new ones staring at him with blatant distrust and wariness written all over their expressions.

It wasn’t until they were at war that he wondered if Daryl even liked men. Something told him that even if he did, he was probably so hiding so deep in the closet that not even face-eating zombies could coax him out. Paul remembers telling himself that it would probably be too difficult to pursue, too messy and possibly detrimental to the partnership between Hilltop and Alexandra (and yes, he has a tendency to sometimes be melodramatic). He hammered it down in that traitorous little brain of his that it was easier this way.

And then he got to know Daryl. Saw how loyal the man was, how strong and brave he could be even under the direst of circumstances. How he’d put himself in the face of danger just to keep his friends safe – and that eventually grew to include Paul. The first time an arrow came between him and what he calculated to be a fatal shot in the matter of moments, he remembers the absolute silence in his head when Daryl came charging through the trees.

Very few of the people at Hilltop would’ve done that for him. People who he’d known for years…and yet a man he hadn’t known for more than a month was willing to risk his life for him. It was something out of a fairy tale, regardless of how the archer would react to such a notion.

And now, he thinks as he takes in the contours of Daryl’s face out of the corner of his eye. Now, he can’t help but wonder what it would be like to fall asleep with those strong arms holding him. What it would be like to kiss him. How Daryl’s hands would feel against his skin…

“What?” Daryl is looking at him with an amused glint in his eye.

He realizes, probably a second too late, that he was staring. The heat that rises in his face is too potent for him to conceal.

“Nothing,” he says. Terrible answer, completely transparent. Shit.

Thankfully, Daryl doesn’t push it. For once, Paul’s actually grateful for the archer’s apparent aversion to conversation.

It isn’t out of the realm of possibility, he decides as Daryl exhales another trail of smoke. Daryl was freaked out about what happened outside the convenience store, enough to make him break down. So, he can safely assume that Daryl cares about him in some fashion. More than he used to, at least.

However, going from the assumption of platonic friendship to something _more_ is essentially too outlandish for Paul to accept without question. Too big of a jump to make based on what little evidence he actually has. Unfortunately, there is that tiny part of him that reminds him how subtle Daryl is. He will never get a big declaration of love from Daryl, not that he ever expects that to happen.

Frankly, he’d be less surprised to see a talking walker than Daryl doing anything like that.

It does mean Paul has to take note of the little things - because the little things are about as straightforward as Daryl is going to be. He knows it falls on him. If he wants to see if this could go anywhere, he’d have to make the first move.

Regardless, it is a huge gamble. The only thing he can safely assume is that Daryl wouldn’t beat the ever-loving daylights out of him. Daryl is friends with Aaron, who he knows is gay, and he remembers Aaron once mentioning that he and Eric had Daryl over for dinner sometime before. So Daryl isn’t one of those ‘exterminate the gays, they’re a menace to society’ sort of guys which, in Paul’s defense, isn’t an unusual sentiment in the Deep South. He also doubts that Daryl would completely disown him and abandon the peculiar semblance of friendship they have. At worst, things between them would become incredibly awkward for awhile – and Paul would probably need a new watchtower partner.

He dares a quick glance in Daryl’s direction. Such a simple movement still makes his chest flutter with nerves. God, he feels like a teenage girl with a crush on the homecoming king or something. It’s embarrassing.

Well, if he’s going to do anything, it should be something on the milder end of the scale. If he straight up planted one on Daryl, he’d probably find himself in a world of hurt on the ground. That drop alone would definitely break a few bones. The stragglers ambling along the perimeter of the gate would be absolutely thrilled.

Mild it is then.

Paul carefully shifts closer to Daryl, making sure he doesn’t take the archer off guard. Daryl gives him an odd look when their shoulders brush lightly. The motion sends a bolt of lightning through his tired bones.

“It’s getting cold out here,” he says as a means of explanation. It’s a lie, obviously. Daryl knows it too by the way his face scrunches up in response. Then again, the thick leather coat he’s got on probably doesn’t help sell his cover story.

However, Daryl doesn’t pull away.

Even through the layers of cloth, he can feel the heat pouring in, making his head swim in pleasant circles. It could be subzero right now and Paul doubts he’d notice it at all.

They sit like that, side-by-side, until the sun has nestled beneath the horizon line.

Tara and Rosita relieve them of duty not longer after dusk settles in, thus, cutting Paul’s experiment short. The walk back is short and muted but Paul notices that Daryl wanders closer to him, their arms bumping against one another from time to time.

“You don’t have to walk me all the way back, you know. I’m a big boy,” Paul teases when they reach his porch, which is one street down and a right turn from Daryl’s own home.

“Whatever you say,” Daryl mutters back, clearly unconvinced.

He nearly says goodnight and heads in, but stops short of opening the door. He turns back around, where Daryl still hovers uncomfortably next to the wicker chair.

Paul opens his mouth but can’t find the right words. Instead, he stands there for a few moments, wondering if the ground could swallow him whole just to save him from his growing embarrassment. Daryl is still watching him, fingers toying with the strap of his crossbow, growing more skittish by the second.

Sometimes though, actions speak louder than words.

He swallows his nerves down and takes a step forward, until he’s nearly chest to chest with the archer. He bites down on his lower lip – and he certainly doesn’t miss the way Daryl’s eyes hone in on the minute movement. Even in the dark, he can see the red stain on Daryl’s skin.

“Can I…?” He chokes for a second. “Can I try something?”

Daryl doesn’t move away. He doesn’t say yes. He doesn’t say no. Paul thinks it’s consent, but he wants to give Daryl all the time he needs if he decides that this isn’t something he wants. (Admittedly, Paul is waiting for the moment to come). So, he reaches up and flattens his palm against Daryl’s cheek, pushes back a few stray hairs from his face and waits.

Yet, Daryl remains as still as a statue. He isn’t running away, and Paul can’t help but think that it’s a sign of something good. Of something that might just be real.

Slowly, Paul pushes up – not having to stretch much because Daryl is only a few inches taller than him, and closes the gap between them. By definition, it’s merely a peck. He slots his lips against Daryl’s, angles his head to side, hoping for some kind of response. Any sort of indication that tells him ‘hey, I’m into this too’.

At first, Daryl remains motionless against him, stiff as a board, and Paul considers pulling back. However, a second later, there’s something. It’s light and hesitant, but it’s something. It becomes increasingly evident that Daryl doesn’t have much experience in this area, not that Paul’s surprised, because his lips are too rigid and dry and his hands are clumsy against Paul’s hips. Daryl’s fingers don’t quite make their way around him; they just seem to hover there uncertainly.

Paul stops himself from taking it further – because Daryl might actually punch him in the face if he tried anything with tongue – and slowly draws back. He lingers close, his hand still cupping Daryl’s cheek, giving Daryl a chance to come to terms with what just transpired.

Daryl just stares down at him. His expression is hard to read. The flush now adorning his cheeks, however, is not.

“This okay?” he finally dares to ask.

He can see Daryl swallow, watches the bob of his Adam’s apple as the archer grapples for an answer. Those fingers finally come to rest against his hip, the grip so slack Paul barely feels it.

“Yeah,” Daryl answers. His voice is deep, more gravelly than before.

Paul releases the breath he was holding, a smile tugging at his lips as his hand falls to Daryl’s shoulder. He chews on his lip, considers it.

“Did you want to come in?”

He feels Daryl’s hand stiffen against him.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Paul quickly adds. “We could just…talk.”

“Talk?” Daryl echoes flatly.

“Contrary to popular belief, Daryl, I actually like hanging out with you.”

Daryl scoffs. His hands drop back down to his sides, much to Paul’s disappointment. He half-expects Daryl to take off down the steps, but the man remains rooted in place.

“If you don’t want to–”

“Nah,” Daryl cuts in. “I want to.”

Paul blinks. “Oh. Okay.”

Real smooth there, Rovia.

“You gonna invite me in or are ya just gonna stand there all night?”

That makes him nearly double over, unable to hold in a quiet snicker. Even in the throes of embarrassment, Daryl is still…undeniably Daryl. The archer takes a retreating step back, but Paul reaches out and grabs him by the wrist, reeling him back. Daryl lets him.

“Hey, I ain’t letting you run off on me now,” he tells him, still breathless. His sides ache now, but it’s a good ache. One that he hasn’t felt in ages.

“C’mon.” Paul tugs on his wrist again, using his other hand to open his front door. “I’ve got a bottle of that whiskey you like so much.”

 

* * *

  
_IX. Now_

The only reason he manages to slip out of Alexandria without a familiar shadow at his side is because Rick is still gone and Alexandria needs every skilled soldier they can get until he returns. Initially, he had planned this trip with Daryl included but changed his mind not long after, citing Rick’s absence as his main concern. The words that came out of his mouth weren’t entirely truthful, not that he’d willingly admit that.

However, the moment the gates part for him and he spots Maggie Rhee standing near Barrington House, wearing a smile that warms him to his toes, he forgets his worries.

At Hilltop, forgetting comes easy. It always has. The people here have a lackadaisical manner about them, too anxious to be akin to the Kingdom’s civilians but not carved with a hundred sharp edges like the folks in Alexandria. Here, he finds himself greeted with bright smiles and fresh fruit before Maggie tugs him up and away from the sporadic festivity.

Baby Hershel is small, smaller than Paul anticipates when he first lays eyes on him slumbering in his crib – the one Daryl helped make while he stayed at Hilltop for a few weeks following Negan’s defeat. The infant has Maggie’s nose and hair, but everything else reminds him distinctly of Glenn.

“He’s a handful,” Maggie tells him softly, peering over his shoulder.

There is not a trace of sorrow on her face anymore, not like there was when she used to stare down at her growing belly with a pained expression. He remembers how it wasn’t until things slowed down that reality seemed to set in for her – that Glenn wasn’t coming back. A handful of times he found her sitting next to Glenn’s grave, shoulders trembling. Those were the times he forced himself to walk away so that she could grieve for her husband in peace.

Today, however, she exudes nothing but pride and joy. Her green eyes glow bright and lively, as they had when she first met Doctor Carson.

The pocket watch that was found in Glenn’s pocket is propped up against the bureau, next to a picture of Maggie holding newborn Baby Hershel. He supposes that Enid gave it back – or gifted it to Baby Hershel – sometime after he left.

“Babies usually are,” he says with an amused huff.

“S’pose that’s true,” she agrees. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, though.”

“No. Guess not.”

She gets him a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and they settle in what used to be Gregory’s study. It’s Maggie’s now, he reminds himself.

“So, how are things back there?” Maggie asks him not long after she takes a seat at the desk.

“The same,” he answers. “Trading with the Kingdom is going well. The Saviors have been…behaving themselves.” That’s a word for it, he supposes. “Father Gabriel wants to start a school for the kids.”

“That’s good to hear.” Maggie leans back and exhales, body sagging in relief. And then she smiles, crooked and uneven. “What would he even want to teach?”

“I have no idea,” he admits with a bark of laughter. “I doubt Algebra would be of any use now.” Or world history. Or literature. He can’t really think of anything that he learned in a classroom that he’s actually implemented since the world turned on its head.

“Maybe survival classes,” Maggie suggests. “The basics, at least.”

“I’ll pass that idea on then.”

“Good.” There is something undeniably unsettling in the way she smiles at him now. “So, s’pose I should just get on with it and ask. How are things with Daryl?”

Admittedly, Paul nearly spits his drink out at her. He ends up practically coughing up a lung instead, desperately trying to take a breath. Maggie just watches him with that keen stare of hers, assessing him silently, like she’s sizing him up.

“How…?” he manages out. He doesn’t recall ever telling her about that. And Daryl hasn’t been at Hilltop in months.

“Let’s just say a little bird told me.”

That narrows it down to Tara and Rosita. Knowing his luck, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was Tara. She always had a knack for nosing around his private life.

“Things are…good,” Paul tells her earnestly. “Really good.”

“I’m happy for you – both of you.” She folds her hands on her desk. “For awhile, I was worried ‘bout him, y’know? I know he blames himself for what happened.” She inhales sharply. “No matter how many times I told him it wasn’t his fault, I could tell he didn’t believe me.”

Paul remembers that too. How angry Daryl was for the longest time. How he lashed out at anything and everything. How he stopped talking – to Maggie, to Tara, to Rick – at one point. It was during those times that he found Daryl not too far from him. Probably because he knew Paul wouldn’t ask about it.

He never did, either.

Daryl never talked about it. He moved on, at a snail’s pace to be precise – but Daryl came back, nonetheless. He went on a few runs with Tara; let the girl joke around with him even if he didn’t understand all of her references. He resumed his attendance to weekly get-togethers at the Grimes household, returned to being Rick’s right-hand man.

But he rarely came to Hilltop – stopped facing Maggie unless he had to. He could tell that it hurt Maggie – and Daryl too. He never met Baby Hershel either.

“Yeah, he’s doing better,” he reassures her. “He’s cracking jokes again.” And Paul makes sure to try and make Daryl smile whenever he can.

“That’s good to hear.” Her response is genuine enough, but her cheerful expression seems forced. Sad.

“I…” he pauses, reconsiders telling her, but steels himself through it. “I think I love him, Maggie.” He shakes his head, eyes falling to the smooth wood of the desk situated between them, fingers trembling as they grip the fabric of his pants.

“No, I know I do.”

“Have you told him?” she asks him softly.

“I’ve tried, believe me.” His voice breaks. “I just can’t seem to get the words out.” They feel stuck in his throat, like a lump he can’t quite swallow. “It’s…”

“Scary,” Maggie surmises. He looks up at her. “I know it is. It was like that…” With her and Glenn, he silently concludes.

“But it was worth it. Every second I had with that man…” Her eyes are glassy now, but she’s still smiling. “I wouldn’t change a single thing – even now.”

Even knowing how the story between her and Glenn would end, Maggie doesn’t regret a single moment of it.

“I know it’s terrifying, loving someone like that. But, you can’t let fear stop you. Because if somethin’ happens, you’re gonna spend the rest of your life wondering ‘what if’.”

 _“Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”_ A quote succinctly pieced together by Alfred Lord Tennyson passes through his mind. How fitting, he thinks.

He forces himself to consider the possibility of losing Daryl. He thinks about how much it would eat away at him if Daryl died without knowing that Paul cared about him so deeply that it physically hurt.

Even if they only had a little time left on this earth together, he’d much rather spend it open and honest with the love of his life. He wants to spend the rest of his days making Daryl smile in whatever way he can. He wants to kiss Daryl until he can’t feel his lips anymore. He wants to keep going on those little runs to the store to pick up seemingly useless knickknacks that Daryl knows means a lot to the people in Alexandria. He wants to wake up to that familiar face asleep in his bed, next to him, holding him close. He wants to kiss every scar again and again until Daryl finally believes he isn’t broken, that he is good enough.

“I’ll tell him,” he reassures her. “When I get back, I’ll tell him.”

Maggie smiles at him. “I’ll hold you to that, then.”

 

* * *

  
He isn’t all that surprised to see Daryl waiting for them – for him – at the gate. Tara is the first out of the truck, making a beeline for Rosita. Aaron is out next, finding his husband in the small crowd gathered around. Finally, Paul jumps out of the truck and finds Daryl standing a good distance away from the small congregation.

Daryl doesn’t like public displays of affection – to no one’s astonishment. Paul is lucky to get a shoulder bump if Daryl is in a good mood that day. Most of the time, he receives a nod as acknowledgement. Or, when no one’s looking, a warm smile that is reserved for Paul alone.

Today, however, he pushes his luck and wraps his arms around the surly man’s middle when he reaches him. Daryl doesn’t push him away, although he does stiffen against him almost immediately. Eventually, though, Daryl drapes an arm around his back and holds him there.

“What brought this on?” Daryl asks him quietly as Paul, reluctantly, pulls away.

“Just missed you, is all,” he answers.

He isn’t lying, at least. He definitely did miss the archer’s presence while he was gone. But he supposes, in a way, he’s trying to work up the nerve – the courage – to say what he needs to say. To finally tell Daryl what he should’ve told him ages ago.

“C’mon,” Daryl says with a huff that sounds more amused than irritated. There is a fresh color of red decorating the bridge of his nose now. Daryl plants a hand at the small of his back and nudges him forward, and Paul follows the other away from the crowd, back into the clean streets of Alexandria.

Daryl leads him to his own little tattered home. The bookshelf has already been completed, situated against the wall in the living room. It’s mostly stocked now, although Paul still isn’t really sure why they didn’t just lug the completed project back to his house – where a majority of his books currently lay in messy, haphazard piles. At the time, Daryl seemed more than happy to have it propped up as the only sign of life in his otherwise dusty home, asking Paul to bring whatever books he wanted with him the next time he visited.

And Paul, well, he didn’t want to push the subject. He already had a toothbrush and a good portion of his clothing intermixed with Daryl’s, either folded in his bureau or hanging up somewhere in his closet. Moving a few books to Daryl’s residence made enough sense in that respect.

When Daryl opens the front door, Paul is almost immediately greeted by a strong, familiar scent. He stops, pauses, and turns back to Daryl with wide eyes.

“Is that duck?” he asks.

“Hunted it this mornin’,” Daryl tells him instead.

“On purpose or…?” Because Paul remembers mentioning that he had a craving for duck a few days before he left for Hilltop. It was just a passing comment and nothing more.

Daryl doesn’t answer. He averts his eyes, blush running down his neck now.

Paul merely smiles, places two palms on Daryl’s tepid skin, and presses a chaste kiss to the man’s lips.

“Thank you,” he says.

He feels the archer’s anxiety melt beneath his fingertips, barely having enough time to suck in a breath before Daryl descends upon him, all tongue and teeth. Their noses bump, until Paul twists his head just right. His eyes flutter shut when Daryl’s tongue moves against his own. For a moment, he considers letting Daryl have his wicked way with him right there, outside on Daryl’s porch where anyone can see.

But, there are a few other things Paul had in mind – although sex was still on the list, just a little further down in the evening (and on a bed).

“Daryl,” he whispers after he shifts an inch away. “Mrs. Whittaker is staring right at us.”

Daryl’s expression furrows and sure enough, when Daryl glances over his shoulder, his elderly neighbor is indeed looking at them, seated on her rocking chair on the porch with her knitting tools in hand.

“Let’s go inside.” He nudges his elbow lightly against Daryl’s ribs. “‘Sides, we wouldn’t want the food to get cold, would we?” Paul teases when Daryl turns back to him.

Paul goes ahead into Daryl’s house and hears Daryl trailing close behind. He unlaces his boots and slides his beanie off his head, already slipping one arm out of his coat when he reaches the living room.

“Let me find a better change of clothes.”

Daryl nods, a bit stiff, cheeks still tinged pink as Paul ascends up the staircase, to Daryl’s room. He chooses a simple white button-up and jeans to slip into.

Daryl is waiting for him in the dining room when he returns, standing awkwardly next to the table. Paul expects a simple layout – a plate or a bowl of something featuring duck, and maybe some mashed potatoes – but once again, Daryl completely exceeds his expectations.

He doesn’t recognize the prim, beige tablecloth stretched across the wooden surface. He also doesn’t recognize the marbled gray printed table cloths that are placed in front of two chairs situated across from one another near the table’s middle. The china plates and wine glasses aren’t new – but they had always lain in Daryl’s cupboards gathering dust because Daryl never had seen a good reason to use them. However, the most astonishing piece that Paul never expected to see in a million years has to be the candles positioned at the center of the table, next to the bottle of wine he remembers once seeing at Aaron and Eric’s.

Admittedly, he’s flabbergasted. He can’t even conjure up a single word to say. Every second that ticks by seems to make Daryl squirm even more, where he stands next to the table, still dressed in a tattered black flannel and denim vest with the familiar pair of wings stitched to the back.

“When you said you hunted a duck, I have to say, this is not what I was expecting,” he finally comments – when he manages to pick up his jaw off the floor.

Daryl gnaws on his thumb. “Eric said you’d like somethin’ like this.”

Well, that’s one way of putting it he supposes. That also explains why there is a very well-made looking bowl of spaghetti sitting next to the cooked duck.

“It’s a surprise – a good one,” he corrects before Daryl can second-guess himself. “But you can’t say you like something you’ve never done, right?”

“Huh?” Daryl’s hand drops back down to his side.

“Never had a guy make me dinner,” he tells him. He’s been taken out to dinner before, but nothing like what sits in front of him right now. The fanciest treat he’s ever had was at a three star seafood restaurant where he ended up blowing the chef after the fact. (He never heard from the guy after that).

“Pricks,” he hears Daryl mutter.

And then the archer is stepping forward, pulling a chair back, looking at Paul like he’s waiting for him to do something. It takes Paul an embarrassingly long time to figure out what Daryl wants him to do.

“Such a gentleman,” he teases as he takes a seat.

The meal itself is much more informal. It feels much more routine, similar to how they typically eat meals together. Some chit-chat, shared updates about Alexandria and Hilltop (though Paul elects to bring up Maggie another time), and a couple of jokes that are enough to make Daryl smile – if even just a little.

He helps clean up the dishes, sees Daryl blow out the candles out of the corner of his eye while he puts some of the leftovers away in the fridge.

Daryl still tastes like wine when Paul leans up to kiss him. They don’t quite make it to the bedroom this time. Instead, Paul begins working at his neck, sucking and biting at the junction between his throat and shoulder. Daryl’s hands brazenly come to cup his ass, kneading the skin there. Slowly, Daryl pushes him close – and Paul feels something hard and familiar against his thigh. He grinds against him for a few moments; eagerly taking in that desperate little gasp Daryl can’t quite stifle.

Paul sinks down to his knees, right there in the kitchen, and brings his fingers to the button of Daryl’s jeans. The man above him watches him with impossibly blue eyes, a quiet groan escaping his lips when Paul finally pulls him out. He glances up, meets the archer’s hazy gaze as he leans close and licks up that vein running along the underside of his cock. Daryl cards a hand through his hair, pulling at the loose strands with quivering fingers.

“Like that?” he asks, sitting back on his knees, one hand still jacking him nice and slow. He can already feel his own pants becoming too tight.

“Ya talk too much,” Daryl tells him in return. His voice isn’t rough in the same way as it usually is – no, it’s softer, practically breathing the words out. The fingers in his hair tug at his head impatiently.

“Thought you liked my voice?” As soon as the question leaves his lips, he bends down and licks at the precum already pooling at the tip. The groan that reverberates above him sounds absolutely wrecked.

Paul takes in just the tip of him, tongue swirling at the head before he sucks it down. A moment later, he pulls back, taking a breath as he strokes him faster. Daryl squeezes his eyes shut, one hand wrapped around the edge of the counter, white knuckled, while the other is still tangled against his head.

Daryl’s grip in his hair feels tight enough to have already ripped out a few strands, only yanking even harder at his scalp when Paul finally takes him all the way down. The head of Daryl’s cock nudges the back of his throat.

“Fuck,” Daryl groans out. The archer’s hips stutter against him, nearly making him gag, but he does his best to keep the man against the counter, one palm planted against his hip. In his hair, Daryl’s hand shifts, now seeming to hold his head in place rather than trying to pull him forward. Nails scratch at his scalp as he slides down his cock again and again, as his chest grows tight and uncomfortable.

Eventually, Paul pulls away again, breathing hard. He licks down the length of Daryl’s cock, down to the man’s surely aching balls. Daryl lets out a sharp breath, pushing his head closer.

Paul swallows him down again, feeling the slight jerk of Daryl’s hips, but only for a short time because Daryl begins tugging at his head.

“M’close,” he tells him when Paul finally draws back.

Paul brushes his hair to one shoulder, out of his face, before he slides his mouth back down. He hastens his pace, taking him as far down as he can before Daryl’s hand clamps down around the nape of his neck, a gruff but winded curse pouring out of lips as he comes down the back of Paul’s throat.

He swallows it down, the fingers against his scalp going slack. When he sits back and looks up, he sees Daryl practically bent back against the countertop, trying to catch his breath with little success. Then again, Paul can still feel his own heart trying to dig its way out of his chest, beating so hard that Paul wonders if it possibly could.

Paul stands up on wobbly knees, and that’s all it takes for Daryl to reach out and grab at his hips. For a split second, a gust of cool air hits the bottom of his feet as Daryl picks him up off the ground.

Wordlessly, Daryl drops him on the countertop. Paul spreads his legs, giving the archer space so that he can step between them. Daryl brings both hands to his face before he kisses him right on the mouth. As their tongues twist together, one hand drops down to his crotch, fingers nimbly undoing the clasp to his pants.

“Goddamn, Daryl,” he gasps out against the archer’s lips.

“Lift up,” is all Daryl grunts out in return, tugging at the coarse material still wrapped around his hips. He does so, allowing Daryl to pull his jeans and his boxer briefs down to his ankles, where Paul kicks the garments off with ease. His aching skin is left vulnerable against the cool surface of the countertop. Before he can think too long or hard about that new observation, the archer is back in his space, kissing him thoroughly until he’s hot all over once more.

Paul places his hands on either side of the man’s face, dragging his left hand back into Daryl’s hair. Daryl’s tongue is still in his mouth when his fingers close around Paul’s leaking dick. He gasps into the man’s mouth when those callused fingers begin stroking him painfully slow. That sinful mouth moves to the tender flesh of his throat, sucking roughly against the formerly unblemished skin there.

“I’m not gonna last,” he tells the archer.

Daryl merely bites down harder against his skin, until Paul wonders if there’s going to be a bruise he’s left to deal with later. The thought is transitory at best because Daryl’s hand and Daryl’s mouth are too good to ignore. He can already feel his balls tightening.

Paul pushes him back long enough to pull his shirt over his head, looping his hands in Daryl’s belt loops to tug him close again. Daryl’s hand returns, stroking him faster now, until a familiar coil begins to tighten in his gut.

“Daryl – oh, fuck,” he manages to stutter out before he’s coming fast and hard.

That evening – or has the sun gone down? – they lay in Daryl’s bed together, comforter pulled over their skins, ankles crossed against one another’s. It isn’t until then that he remembers, and the words finally sit dormant on his tongue. Daryl stares at him like he’s hung the stars and the moon, his callused fingers tracing unknown patterns into the back of his hand.

In hindsight, it is rather predictable that he figures out a way to stumble his way through what he wanted to be a sentimental moment between them. Instead of working up to it – like he should with Daryl, knowing how easy the man scares – he ends up blurting it out.

Like a child with no impulse control.

“I love you.”

The fingers stop cold on his hand. They don’t draw away though, and that alone is what stops Paul from nearly bolting from the bed, buck-naked. When he dares himself to look up, Daryl’s eyes are on him, studying him intently.

“You mean that?” Daryl eventually asks, voice rough.

“‘Course I do,” Paul answers without hesitation. It only takes a second for the nerves to return. “Just…wanted to say it, I guess. You don’t have to say it back if you don’t want. I don’t want you to feel like–”

“Paul,” is all that Daryl says to make him stop rambling on like a blithering idiot. Daryl reaches for his hand again, tugging him close and kissing his worries away.

“I love ya too,” Daryl reassures him when they pull apart, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh,” he says for a lack of a better word. And then he smiles, because it finally registers in his brain that Daryl Dixon _loves_ him. This thing between them is something big and something real.

“Thank God.” He chuckles, breathlessly. And then he kisses Daryl again. And again. And again.

It isn’t until his eyes begin to feel heavy that Daryl shifts next to him and wipes a stray hair from his face. He opens his mouth, seemingly hesitant.

“Stay,” Daryl says.

His sleepy mind interprets that to mean ‘stay the night’ – which he was already planning to.

“I’m too tired to go anywhere,” he tells the archer, shutting his eyes again.

“No, I mean…” he hears Daryl sigh heavily.

He glances up at the man. Daryl won’t quite meet his eyes now. The word ‘stay’ files back through his mind, and he ponders what it could mean for a second. It doesn’t take long for Paul to fit the pieces together.

“Stay…as in move in?” Paul guesses.

Daryl chews on his lower lip. It makes Paul want to kiss him all over again.

“Yeah.” He sounds as nervous as Paul felt when he came back from Hilltop and saw Daryl standing there, waiting for him.

“Half of my stuff is already here,” he points out. But when he notices that Daryl is staring at him with a dubious look, it makes him pause. “I’d love to move in with you, Daryl.”

Most of the time, as he’s come to learn over the course of their relationship, straightforward and direct is a better communication approach with Daryl.

Paul shifts forward and Daryl loops an arm around his waist. He kisses the hard edge of his jaw, stays there until he feels the tension drain from Daryl’s body.

“We can get the rest of my stuff tomorrow,” he proposes. He grapples for Daryl’s hand, until he can entangle their fingers together and press a kiss to his knuckles.

“But, I’m redecorating the place,” he continues on. “It needs more…pizzazz.”

“Pizzazz?” Daryl scoffs.

“Remember when you said these houses were too big?” He doesn’t wait for an affirmation – he knows Daryl remembers. “Well, I think part of the problem was that this was just a house to you. Not a home. And I want this place to be our home, Daryl.”

He wants a home to come back to. A home where he can make new memories. A home that people will look at and know it’s his and Daryl’s – not just the old, rickety house on the end of the street.

He doesn’t want to exist. He wants to live. To thrive in a world they had to build from scratch.

“Yeah,” Daryl eventually rasps. “I want that too.”

 

* * *

  
“This is the last of it,” Paul says after he drops the last box. Compared to before, he doesn’t have that much. Clothes. Shampoo. Books – a lot of books. He remembers what moving used to be like, how they would need those large vehicles to carry everything for them. And now it merely takes two hands and a little bit of time to relocate.

Daryl stares down at the boxes, unimpressed.

“Where’s all this gonna fit?”

“We’ll make it fit, Daryl.”

Daryl snorts, but doesn’t try and argue with him. After all, Daryl is the one who wanted Paul to move in with him, into the house that was a third of the size compared to the place Paul was living in. If he was so worried about closet space, he should’ve thought that one through a little more before he insisted that Paul should come live with him.

Paul scrounges through the boxes one at a time, sorts the items out. Clothing. Bathroom. Book. Something else. In approximately the sixth or seventh box – he stopped counting – he finds the large book he had stuffed under his bed the first night he moved to Alexandria.

“What’s that?” he hears Daryl ask him.

He hesitates, hand smoothing over the dusty cover. He hasn’t opened this thing for what – years now?

“My family’s photo album,” he tells Daryl quietly.

He can hear Daryl’s boot scrape against the wood. Slowly, the man steps closer to him, staring at the old green book sitting between his hands. Daryl sits down next to him, shoulder to shoulder, quiet and patient. He knows he can decide that he doesn’t want to talk about it – knows that Daryl will let him stuff it back under a bed and turn a blind eye.

But part of him wants to talk about it.

“I went back,” he begins. “Maybe, three months after the turn. I lived in the city…they lived about fifty miles away in the suburbs, so getting there was absolute hell.” He remembers how big the herds were in the city, like nothing he’s ever seen out here.

“I was too late.” He remembers getting into his family home, looking for familiar faces. All he found were old memories. “They could still be out there – I never found…” He pauses, swallows down the knot in his throat.

“Ended up taking a few things. Cellphones – because I was foolishly optimistic, some clothes, and…” He taps a finger on the album cover. “I took this too. Photographs are pretty hard to replace.”

Daryl remains there, next to him, silent and listening, a sturdy foundation for him to lean on. He takes a shuddering breath and forces himself to flip the cover over, to open the box of memories he’s been so scared to revisit.

When he turns the page to see his parent's smiling faces, he inhales sharply. There’s a picture of his first birthday – of his fifteenth. There are pages dedicated to school photos and achievements (as far and in-between as they may be). He sees a few snaps of his prom, his horribly slicked back, over-gelled hair and garish red suit. There’s a photo of him in his cap and gown. He continues through the album, page by page, picture by picture, memory by memory. 

He feels his shoulders shaking, feels Daryl’s arm wrap around him comfortingly, but he perseveres until he reaches that first blank page.

“There’re some old picture frames up in the attic,” Daryl tells him when he’s done. “Could frame some of them if ya wanted.”

Paul wipes the wet tears from his cheeks and musters a nod.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’d like that.”


	2. Daryl

_I. Then_

The last thing he expects to see is that tree-hugging looking prick staring down at him from the top of the truck. He wants to yell out ‘why are you here’, can still feel the contours of the man’s face against his knuckles, but the only thing he’s really able to do is let that scarred asshole drag him back to that tiny hellhole. He doesn’t want to admit it but there is an undeniable twinge of relief in his gut – because at least he knows that the hippie prick won’t try to kill him.

He doesn’t know if he’s surprised to find those same wide blue eyes staring at him while his mind goes completely blank, while his hands go completely berserk. Daryl recognizes the horror stretched across the prick’s expression and does his best to ignore that sinking feeling in his stomach.

It’s been a long time since someone’s looked at him like that.

He gets his bike back. With some reluctance, he lets the hippie prick show him the way to Hilltop until those tall, familiar wooden gates appear in the distance. It’s not _home_ , but it’s not prison either.

The fingers that hesitantly clutch at his sides make him itch uncomfortably, but it’s the last thing on his mind. All he can think is that he’s finally _free_. He won't be trapped in that dark room with just the memories in his head as company. The bruises on his skin will finally have a chance to fade, and he'll get his hands on something that isn't meant for a dog. But the burst of relief that pushes through him is short-lived at best.

The realization isn't slow or gradual. It merely pops into his head, unbidden, but it seems to burrow there like a parasite.

Glenn and Abraham are still dead.

His shoulder aches both hot and cold, as if his bone wants to dig itself out. (A part of him wonders if it could).

He escaped one hell only to stumble right into another. Only now, there's no way out.

“Daryl?” a familiar voice calls out – and no, he thinks, it can’t be…

Rick said she was _dead_.

And yet, the woman hovering at the top of the gate is none other than Maggie Greene. Nausea hits him like a two-ton semi truck because this isn’t his eyes aren’t playing tricks on him. Maggie is staring down at him with the widest grin he’s seen in weeks – like she could actually be relieved to see him.

Like it isn’t his fault that Glenn’s gone.

He stops there, unsure of what to do next, unsure of what he _should_ do. For a moment, he grapples for breath. The hippie prick – Paul, because he ain’t calling the guy Jesus – hops off the back of the bike with all the confidence Daryl doesn’t have. The gate seems to part at his command.

Paul turns back to him with a reassuring nod.

Daryl is stopped almost immediately the second his heel hits the ground. Maggie’s on him, arms wrapped around his neck, sobbing openly now. He can feel something damp against the collar of his shirt.

“I’m so happy that you’re okay,” he hears her say. “Thank God.”

When she pulls back, he chokes. He remembers the horror drawn across her face when the bat came crashing down. He remembers her agonizing screams. He remembers–

He _remembers_.

What’s he supposed to say?

What can he say?

Daryl is frozen, unable to look her straight in the face because he knows what he’ll see. He knows what he’ll remember.

Somewhere up in the clouds, he imagines Merle calling him a coward.

“We need to get him out of here before Gregory sees him,” Paul says. He appears at Maggie’s side, so sudden that Daryl can’t help but wonder if he was there the whole time.

It takes him a moment to even register what came out of the man's mouth, and another for him to react. His hand curls into a fist at his side, the nerves tugging all the way down to the bone. 

Of course, he thinks. They were never going to let him stay here. It’s too risky. If the Saviors found him here… He swallows the bile rising in his throat, forces his fingers to still.

“We’re not sending him back out there,” Maggie snaps.

“That’s not what I meant,” Paul tells her, shaking his head. “We need to get him out of plain sight. If any of them come back here, you know what Gregory’s going to do.”

“I won’t let him.”

Daryl finally lets himself meet her eyes and he doesn’t find what he’s expecting. The anger, the disgust, the fucking pity – he doesn’t see any of it. There, standing before him, isn’t a person who lost their whole world. No, it’s a woman making the world bow to her feet.

Maggie Greene is stronger than any of them.

“It’d be better if we just avoided it altogether,” Paul argues. “At least, for now.”

He spares Daryl a short glance but before Daryl can make anything out of that look, Paul is already turning back to Maggie. It’s almost like he’s waiting for her to give the go-ahead. As if he takes orders from her…

“Fine,” she finally grants with a tired sigh. “Take him back to the trailer and get him cleaned up. I’ll work on Gregory.” With that, she swivels on her heel and takes off – to where, Daryl doesn’t know.

“Come on,” Paul says, glancing back at him. His eyes flicker down to his bike briefly. “We’ll park that somewhere the Saviors won’t find it.”

 

* * *

 

“Here,” Paul begins without preamble, dumping a pile of clothes into his grimy hands. “They’ll probably be a bit small, but it’s better than what you’ve got.” The shorter man nods at Daryl’s borrowed clothes, which are stained in red and covered in dirt.

Before Daryl can even mutter a simple ‘thank you’, the other is stepping away, pointing to a closed door on the other end of the room. Daryl follows the gesture, but his eyes catch on something hanging off the arm of the couch. A shirt – far too small to belong to the man in front of him. However, before he can make sense of it, Paul is already speaking again.

“There’s a shower right over there. It’s a tight fit, but at least everything is in working order.”

Finally, there is a short pause, where Paul looks back at him with that same damned look that used to make Daryl want to take a swing at him. That unflappable air of confidence the man practically exuded all those days ago - back when they wrestled over a truck - still remains, but there is something softer in the way he looks at Daryl now. It’s not pity – thank God – but it’s not edged with disgust either. Something in between, he guesses. Something that doesn’t quite have a name yet.

He nods. The movement feels stilted and short. But Paul smiles back anyway.

“Take as long as you need,” he tells him.

The bathroom is small, just as Paul told him it would be. But the water is refreshing all the same. He practically tears the clothes from his body, making sure the flannel is in pieces before he throws it to the floor.

There isn’t a mirror in here, but he reckons that might be a good thing.

Daryl doesn’t know how long he stands there under the steady stream of water, how long he watches the flickers of red swim down the drain. The dirt falls off of him in muddy chunks, and he can feel his nails digging too far into his skin as he tries to scrape it all away.

His fingers hover over the divot in his shoulder. He lets his eyes fall shut, lets himself picture caving in Dwight’s skull with a rock, or hammer, or even Negan’s bat. If he had killed Dwight like he should’ve in the burnt forest, they wouldn’t have been there. If he hadn’t left the gates of Alexandria, Glenn would still be alive.

A shudder passes through him like an earthquake. Because of him, Maggie and Glenn’s baby won’t have a father. Because of him, Glenn won’t even be here to meet his child when it comes into this world.

He bites down on his lower lip until a sharp, coppery taste fills his mouth. Daryl stumbles forward, turns the water off, and lingers there, struggling for breath. He can hear his gasping wheezes, hear his heartbeat speeding up. He can still see the tiles on the wall clear enough he can count them. His joints feel like they’ve been dragged through sandpaper and his throat feels like it’s beginning to close in on itself. He can’t seem to find the strength to move.

He should be fighting whatever this is. Fighting back. Fighting to survive.

But he’s not.

Instead, he feels like the only thing he can do is watch. Like he's not even himself anymore.

Fear is second nature to him and it takes hold fast, consuming every inch that it touches until it's the only thing he can feel. Until it's the only thing that's taking up the empty space in his head.

_There’s nothing to fear but fear itself._

Gradually, his lungs begin to work again. His arms and legs no longer ache quite like before, and he no longer feels like he’s floating somewhere else. The world finally stops spinning sideways. Eventually, he’s able to reach to his left and shove the shower curtain aside, staggering out of there without tumbling over.

He's too tired to think. It feels like he's running on autopilot, like he's going through the motions without truly living them.

The clothes are a size or two too small. The pants feel a tad narrow around his hips, and he has to pull at the front of the shirt in order to get the buttons to clasp. But it’s better than the damn flannel he stole from that asshole at the Sanctuary.

Paul is still inside – or has returned from wherever, Daryl isn’t too sure – when Daryl steps back into the living space. The man looks up at him with wide eyes, stiff as steel where he stands.

“You okay?” he asks carefully.

“M’fine,” Daryl snaps.

He’s everything but fine.

Thankfully, Paul doesn’t push it. It takes him off guard for a moment because the asshole he met back on the road is practically a different person than the guy hovering less than ten feet away. But he remembers caving a guy’s head in when Paul came sprinting out from his hiding spot. He remembers the look in Paul’s eyes while he watched.

Fear.

It takes him back to Georgia, where people would utter those horrible things about him. Where he had a shadow following him, one that he could never quite escape.

_“Them Dixons ain’t nothin’ but trouble.”_

“Maggie’s still talking to Gregory,” Paul decides to inform him. “You should probably stay in here until she gets through to him.”

“I can leave.”

The response is immediate, nearly scaring Daryl out of his skin. Suddenly, Paul isn’t across the room. He’s standing right in front of him now, close enough that Daryl can see the flecks of green in his otherwise crystalline blue eyes.

“No,” Paul counters immediately, voice harsh. “It took this long to get you out and I’ll be damned if I let you walk right out those gates in worse shape than when you got here.”

Why does Paul care enough to get this bent out of shape over someone he hardly knows? It doesn’t make much sense to him – no, it doesn’t make a lick of sense actually. These people won’t stand a chance against the Saviors – they couldn’t even overpower a single satellite station without Rick’s help. Keeping him here is a huge detriment. If Negan found him, who else would have to die?

“Give Maggie some time,” Paul continues. “Gregory will fold. And when that happens, we can go from there.”

Go where, he thinks but doesn’t say.

Paul pulls something from his pocket – and it’s in that instant Daryl notices that something’s different about him. It doesn’t take him long to figure out that Paul must’ve changed clothes while he was still in the shower. The man in question holds out a box in the palm of his hand. Daryl sees the cover and realizes that there’s a deck of playing cards inside.

“Until then, how about we blow some time ourselves?”

 

* * *

 

_II. Now_

Paul is already home when Daryl finally gets back and kicks off his boots. He finds the younger man propped up on the couch with a book in his hands, dressed down in a tank top and loose sweats with his hair tied back.

The heat has become unbearable lately, hotter than he remembers it ever being before. He can feel a thin sheen of sweat building on his brow, and his nose hasn’t stopped burning for awhile now. Absently, he scratches at it but the motion only makes the sensation worse.

“Welcome back, dear,” Paul says with teasing lilt when he notices him. He folds the top edge of the page before he closes the book and discards it on the coffee table. Quickly, he climbs to his feet and eliminates the distance between them, rising up to give Daryl a quick kiss.

He backs away, eyes narrowing on something. One of Paul’s hands hovers near Daryl’s face, finger tapping lightly on the tip of his nose.

“Sunburn,” he tells Daryl. “I would say put some sunscreen on, but I doubt we’ve got any. Maybe we should find you one of those wide-brimmed hats.”

“Nah.” He remembers those stupid things that Dale used to wear.

“Well, I’d reconsider that if I were you. If it ain’t the walkers that get you, could be skin cancer.” He’s still tugging on Daryl’s proverbial pigtails, but his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Daryl exhales tiredly. “I’ll look tomorrow.”

Paul presses a smacking kiss to his cheek. The relief is evident on his face, and Daryl supposes he can stomach wearing a stupid hat for awhile if it makes Paul feel better. Hell, he’s already begun trying to wean himself off cigarettes because of Paul’s passing comments. At least the hat won’t keep him up at night.

“So, I was thinking,” Paul begins again, taking Daryl’s hand between his. “We haven’t visited Hilltop for what – a few months now.”

“No,” Daryl says before he can finish. He can see Maggie’s face in his head, can hear Glenn’s last words in his ears, and that’s all it takes for him to not even consider the prospect. He hasn’t been there since the war with the Saviors ended and he doesn’t plan on changing that unless he has no other choice.

“Just hear me out, Daryl.” All false pretenses have slipped away, and all that’s left standing in front of him is that sobered version of Paul Rovia that could take down a man twice his size with his bare hands.

“I talked to Maggie last time I went there,” he continues. “She wants to see you. What happened–”

Daryl’s ears stop working then. He yanks his hand away and takes a defensive step back. His whole mind has gone horribly blank.

“Don’t wanna hear it,” he snaps, his chest heavier than it was a few moments ago. “I ain’t goin’.”

Paul chews on his lower lip. “Daryl…”

“M’gonna go for a walk,” he says, tearing his eyes away from the other man. He readjusts his crossbow on his shoulder, pulls on his boots without lacing them, and marches out the door without another word. The whole time he could feel eyes boring into his skin, like a thousand tiny needles eating away at him.

He doesn’t go far. There aren’t many places for him to wander unless he leaves the gates, which he ultimately decides he’d rather not.

In the end, he stops at the back perimeter of the fence surrounding this little town, an edge that is normally left uninhabited but for a few rodents and birds. He finds an oak tree to sit in front of, where the sun doesn’t reach his heated skin.

_“You ever think about it? Settling down?”_

Daryl takes a shuddering breath and closes his eyes. It isn’t hard to picture Rick and Michonne, who have been together for well over a year now. Or Aaron and Eric who were together before all this started.

He thinks about Sasha and Abraham, of what that would’ve looked like if they both were still here.

He thinks about Tara and Denise, whose time together was cut unfairly short. He remembers how adamant Denise was about that orange soda.

He thinks about Glenn and Maggie – and the baby. He knows it’s a boy, Hershel Jr. according to everyone who’s seen him. He also knows he looks a lot like Glenn. Daryl can only hope the boy will grow up to be a fraction as good as his father.

Eventually, he thinks about him and Paul. Thinks about their little house at the end of the street, about how Paul’s books have practically invaded every room now. How Paul practically clings to him at night, hot or cold, as if he’s afraid Daryl will disappear on him. How Daryl still sometimes wakes with a start, screams fresh in his ears. How Paul will press up against him if he hears Daryl breathing too hard.

He wonders what Glenn would’ve said, if he was still here. Daryl’s torn between believing that Glenn would’ve either been completely surprised, or that he would’ve claimed to know something was up all along.

He wonders if Glenn and Maggie would have stayed in their quaint, two-story house, or if Glenn would’ve willingly relocated to Hilltop to be closer to the doctor. The latter, if he has to guess.

Sometimes, he sees the world differently. How things would’ve been the same yet dissimilar in a world where it was Daryl who got the bat that day while Glenn lived on to fight the war. Hershel Jr. would have a father that adored every single thing he did. The Sanctuary would have fallen with or without him. Paul would still be at Hilltop. With Gregory’s downfall, he doesn’t know who would’ve been left in charge then – Paul or Maggie.

Although he would never admit this out loud, sometimes he wishes it was him.

Daryl returns home at dusk, when the streets are empty but for the few left on patrol. The lights shine through the curtained windows as he makes his way up the porch steps. The door is unlocked and yields easily beneath his fingers as he twists and pushes the heavy slab open.  There, on the couch, sits Paul. This time, he doesn’t have a book on his lap, and he looks anything but happy.

The expression on the man's face makes him feel lower than dirt - because he knows he's the reason for it in the first place.

Paul doesn't utter a word. Instead, he stares at him for a moment, hands anxiously twisting in his lap. Daryl doesn't know how much time passes, how long he's standing in the entryway, how long they look at one another without a single word being exchanged between them. But he releases a breath when Paul finally looks away, averting his gaze to the floor.

For once, he seems just as lost as Daryl feels and to be honest, he doesn't know what to make of that. He's become so accustomed to Paul having all the answers, to Paul knowing what to say and what to do when Daryl can hardly string a single, coherent thought together.

Eventually, he hangs his crossbow up and slowly steps towards the couch. Paul doesn't stop him from taking a seat next to him - he doesn't even look up at him the couch dips beneath his weight.

“Don’t ever leave like that again,” Paul says, voice deathly quiet despite how loud it seems to bellow in his ears.

_Don’t leave me._

Daryl doesn't have to hear the words to know what they mean.

"Sorry." There's nothing else he can say - nothing else he can even think to say.

Paul nods stiffly before he raises his head and looks Daryl in the eye. It only makes the guilt return with a vengeance.

With a ragged sigh, he practically crumbles forward, putting his head in his hands. The frustration, the anger, the absolute emptiness - it's overwhelming. He's mostly angry with himself, angry that he's still here and wasting away when there are other people who'd be making the most of their time if they were in his place. Angry that he's bringing Paul down with him when he doesn't deserve that.

Hell, Daryl's never deserved someone like Paul.

He doesn't cry, but he comes close.

And Paul sits there next to him, a silent but sturdy presence despite the storm brewing in Daryl's head. He rubs Daryl's back while he does his best to breathe. He doesn't make him talk about it. Instead, he gets him a glass of water before he ushers him to bed, tucking him under the sheets with soft but cautious hands. That night, he falls asleep with Paul wrapped around him, holding him tight.

 

* * *

 

Paul is still asleep behind him when Daryl finally rouses from slumber. The slim arms wound around his waist aren’t his, neither are the legs tangled between his beneath the sheets. It’s tempting to just shut his eyes and drift off again, but the sun is already peering through the curtains – and he has stuff to do today.

He rubs the crust from his eyes before he turns onto his back, watching his bed partner sigh deeply before rolling away, ending up on his stomach with his arms splayed over his head. One wrist lands on the center of Daryl’s chest gracelessly. His hair is a mess; briefly reminding Daryl of a halo with the way the sun makes some of it glow gold. The sheets have pooled at his waist now, and Daryl can see the long, thin red marks running down his shoulders. It makes Daryl’s face heat when the memories of last right run, unbidden, through his mind. A familiar ache slow crawls up his spine.

A sigh escapes his lips and he can’t help but scrub a tired hand over his face, hoping it’ll make some of the heat itching beneath his skin dissipate.

“Wha’ time is it?” he hears a familiar voice slur. When he looks down, a single blue-green eye is peering up at him, the rest of his face still hidden within the forgiving dip of the pillow.

Daryl glances over at the electric clock on his nightstand.

“Twenty minutes till ten,” he answers.

Paul hums, eyes slipping shut for a moment. Daryl can see the steady rise of his body, shoulders shifting, when he takes a deep breath. Eventually, Paul rolls onto his side, one arm cushioned beneath his head, facing Daryl with a sleepy smile that warms Daryl down to the tips of his toes.

“We don’t have to be there till noon,” Paul reminds him quietly.

He’s right. The ceremony doesn’t start for a few hours, and neither of them have a shift until later in the day. They’ve got some time to do as they please. If they spent that time wrapped around each other in bed, Daryl wouldn’t mind. Not one bit.

Daryl reaches over and tucks some stray strands behind Paul’s ear, until he can fully see his face. He can feel Paul’s breath against his wrist; can hear the small huff of amusement the man makes in response to the movement. When he pulls his arm back, Paul’s smile is even brighter. More alert now.

In the end, it’s Daryl who closes the distance between them, tugging at the nape of the other’s neck to pull him close, kissing him until the only thing he can taste on his tongue is Paul. For once, he surrenders to the warmth boiling over in his chest, lets himself get lost in it, silencing that nagging voice in the back of his head. Time passes faster this way, practically flying by when he stops thinking so much - when all of his attention diverts to the man who has rolled on top of him.

Paul seems more than happy to distract him.

“So, I’m guessin’ I’m not gonna be able to convince you to wear the suit I got for you,” Paul comments a little while later, after he's found his voice again, as Daryl traces nonsensical patterns into the smooth, sloping edge of his shoulder.

“You got tha’ right, at least,” he mutters. He remembers when Paul first brought home that old, dusty thing he had found at some thrift shop a ways down. The last time he wore one of those things was at his ma’s funeral, and he didn’t plan on wearing one ever again.

“Can you wear something that’s clean – and doesn’t have holes?” Paul pauses. “And no vest.”

“A’right,” he agrees, moving his fingers to Paul’s hair, scratching against his scalp the way he knows the man likes. “When’d ya become such a nag?”

“Well, one of us has to be,” Paul counters with ease.

“Says you.”

“Says me,” Paul agrees. “I do it ‘cause I love you, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” He lets his hand fall to Paul’s back, pushes him close. “Love ya too.” The words are quiet, but he knows Paul heard them with the way the man curls even closer to him. He wonders if Paul can hear his heartbeat hammering against the walls of his chest right now.

A week has passed since their last fight. Unsurprisingly, Paul hasn’t brought Maggie up since then; probably because he fears that Daryl would just run off again. Daryl can’t say with confidence that he w _ouldn’t_.

As he sees it, there are two certainties in this world. One: that the dead are up and walking and chewing each other’s faces off. And two: that Daryl Dixon is unequivocally and unarguably in love with Paul Rovia.

He’s become used to living his life around those two things, especially the second thing. The routine he’s established is one that’s comfortable and safe, so domestic that Merle is probably scoffing at him from Heaven right now. But, this is the happiest he thinks he’s ever been – ever will be probably.

It’s too easy to forget.

It’s just as hard to remember.

“Think I’m gonna go take a shower,” Paul tells him, pressing a light kiss to Daryl’s cheek. His arms fall slack as Paul sits up, mouth going painfully dry when Paul promptly clambers out of the bed, naked as they day he was born. His cock twitches when the man stops and bends down to grab his clothes from the floor. Based on Paul’s shit-eating smirk, it was on purpose.

Daryl waits until he hears the shower running to let out a quiet groan, gaze boring up into the ceiling. The ceiling fan makes that god-awful clinking noise and Daryl decides he’ll look at it tonight or tomorrow.

He finds his T-shirt and boxers on the floor, slips them on before he pads to the kitchen. The fridge needs to be restocked soon, because beer and eggs will only last them for so long. The carton is much lighter than he figured it would be when he picks it up. Maybe, they’ll drop by inventory after the ceremony.

Admittedly, Daryl isn’t much of a cook. But, then again, he isn’t the one who nearly set the house on fire trying to bake a pie. Eggs he can do – same with most types of meat. Baking, however, has always been more up Carol’s alley (still is too, since she sends him back with a batch of cookies every time he visits her).

Paul’s footsteps catch his attention just as he’s finishing up and scraping the last of the egg white from the pan. The younger man has a towel lying around his shoulders, hair still damp, as he looks over Daryl’s shoulders with hungry eyes.

Daryl offers him a plate, and Paul kisses him on the cheek in return before taking it off his hands.

“Thank you, dear.”

“We doin’ nicknames now?” he asks with a growing sense of horror.

“I could call you something else,” Paul proposes as he takes a seat. “Pumpkin. Snookums. Honey bun.” There’s more. There’s always more – because Paul’s way with words, although endearing, still makes Daryl want to put his own head through a wall sometimes.

“Hell no.”

“Didn’t Carol call you something?” He taps his fork thoughtfully against the edge of the plate. “What was it again…?”

“Please, stop,” he practically begs.

Paul smiles and tilts his head. “I’m just pulling your pigtails, Daryl. I promise I won’t embarrass you too much in front of your friends.”

Evidently, Daryl doesn’t believe him.

But, he does carry his own plate back and takes a seat next to Paul, digging in eagerly. Breakfast is a short, quiet affair. Over the months, Daryl has realized that despite his quick-moving mouth, Paul enjoys comfortable silences. Even when the stillness lingers, it’s never stifling.

“Go take a shower,” Paul tells him when they’re finished, collecting both of their plates. “I’ll take care of these.”

Daryl is out in five minutes, the sweat and grime washed down the drain, shaking most of the moisture from his hair before twisting the rest of it out with one of the bathroom towels. He scrubs the damp cloth over his face once more before he hangs it back on the rack and heads towards the bedroom to find a change of clothes.

Just as Paul suggested, he chooses one of his clean flannels – checkered in black and pine green – and a pair of jeans he’s worn maybe once. It’s a bit stuffy thanks to the humidity hovering all around him, so he pushes the sleeves up to his elbows and hopes that Paul won’t fret over such a small alteration. At least the shirt still has sleeves.

He finds Paul in one of the recliners when he returns, still in his sleepwear but his hair has been tied back into a tiny bun at the back of his head. Paul turns to him and seems to almost do a double take. Daryl feels his skin burning again, growing too warm beneath the fresh layers.

“You look good,” Paul says, honest. “Really good.”

“Uh, thanks.” He’s not quite sure how to respond.

Paul gets to his feet, coming to stand in front of him before he gives him another appraising look. He flattens his palms against both of Daryl’s arms, rubbing up and down his clothed biceps with a quiet, little hum.

“I’m gonna go get changed,” Paul says, dropping his hands back down to his sides. “Wait here.”

Not much time passes before Paul returns, dressed in the same white button-up Daryl remembers him wearing when he first introduced them to Gregory. He looks nice too, Daryl decides silently.

“C’mon,” Paul says, tugging him by the hand.

The church isn’t very far from them, only a few streets down. A small group has already congregated outside, and he knows more are probably already seated inside. He sees Tobin and Scott chatting amiably by the entrance and just a few yard away, Eugene and Tara are laughing about something. Everyone is dressed up in formal attire and all Daryl can think about is how weird it is – how ordinary this all feels.

On the right side of the church is a setup that was intricately pieced together over time. There are two long folding tables with similar seating lined up beneath the overhanging oak tree. Draped over the tables are plain white tablecloths – possibly bed sheets that were stitched together at some point – with a long line of empty plates, glasses, and utensils situated in front of every chair. Vases of red roses are placed at the end of each table. Attached to a suspended string is an alignment of white balloons, stretching from the trunk of one tree to another, hanging well above the elaborate display.

Tara waves at them – Daryl doesn’t miss the tiny orange flower tucked next to her ear – and Paul returns the gesture. Daryl musters a small smile, ignoring the small wave of discomfort that passes through him as another large group of guests arrive right behind them. Knowing his luck, the whole town’s probably going to here in a matter of minutes.

Thankfully, Paul leads him straight inside, out of the heat and away from all the chatty people. The church’s interior is decorated too, as he soon finds out. White and yellow petals are scattered all across the floor and a tiny bouquet of white roses hang from the end of every row.

They find a seat in the second row, leaving a comfortable amount of space between them and the others that are already seated. Seated in the front row in the other column are Aaron and Eric, both wearing white button-ups and slacks. A few rows back, he notices Rosita. She’s sitting alone, hands folded limply in her lap, wearing a light green, fitted summer dress. She meets his eyes for a moment but is quick to look away, her mouth pressed in a firm line.

Before he can think much of it, Paul grips his hand lightly.

“You good?” he asks when Daryl turns back.

“Yeah,” Daryl answers. “S’just hot.”

Paul hums. “That it certainly is. You know, Rick wanted you as his best man, right?”

Daryl scoffs and leans back against the pew. He knew that. Rick also knew he’d say no – because standing in front of a town of people like a circus monkey isn’t exactly his forte.

“Looks like it’s almost time,” Paul says, staring over his shoulder - towards the entrance.

More people are filing in now, filling in the empty space quickly. Tara and Eugene sit in their row, close to the edge, while a couple – a blonde woman and a man close to her age – sit in the space between them. Daryl recognizes their faces but doesn’t remember their names.

Soon, Father Gabriel arrives, Bible in hand as he treads to the pulpit. Whatever he says blends together in Daryl’s ears. It isn’t until he sees Rick walking down the aisle in a slick black suit that he sits up straighter. Rick glances at him as he continues forward, smiling from ear to ear. Hesitantly, Daryl smiles back.

If anyone deserves this, it’s Rick.

Carl holds Judith’s hand as she walks in next, a small basket clasped in one of her tiny hands. He whispers the directions to her, helps her toss a few petals to the ground as they make their way to the pulpit as well. The rings are safely tucked away in the pocket of Carl’s slacks.

Every head turns when Michonne enters. She’s dressed in a loose, white halter dress that drapes all the way down to her feet. In her hand, instead of a sword, is a mixed bouquet of colorful flowers – daisies, tulips, roses, and others. An intricate crisscross design dips down to her lower back, ending just before the slight flare of the skirt of her gown. Her hair is pinned back too, he realizes, strings of pearls woven in, glistening brightly.

For once, she looks nervous.  

Rick does too. But there’s an undeniable happiness that he exudes as she stops next to him. When he holds out his arm, Michonne takes it without an ounce of hesitation.

“If anyone has any objections speak now or forever hold your peace,” Father Gabriel says, staring out at the audience. Predictably, he is met with nothing but silence.

Paul takes his hand again as Rick and Michonne say their vows. When Daryl looks over, there’s a small smile on Paul’s face. It only grows when Daryl squeezes his hand in return.

When Rick and Michonne share their first kiss as husband and wife, a chorus of cheers and applause echo throughout the church.

The thought never crosses his mind until now. When he looks over at Paul, who’s watching Rick and Michonne with a genuinely happy expression, the only thing he can think of is how much he wants to spend the rest of his life waking up next to this man. How much he wants to keep crafting a home for them, here in Alexandria, in their tiny, scrappy house at the end of the road.

Marriage had never been something he considered before – no one had ever made him think about it honestly and what person in their right mind wanted to marry a Dixon – but things are different here. Things are different _now_.

Forever isn’t scary anymore.

He doesn’t think when he hauls Paul up into a kiss after they file outside, ignoring the various prying eyes that suddenly find them interesting. Paul is stiff against him, hesitant and cautious in every way.

“What brought this on?” he asks, breathless. He looks more confused than anything.

A small, traitorous part of his brain utters something that makes him stop short.

_What if he says no?_

 

* * *

 

_III. Then_

He doesn’t consider staying. He can’t. Peace and inaction have never been in his blood, not before and certainly not now. In a world where bloodshed and war continue to exist, Daryl Dixon can never rest.

Carol’s different than him. She always has been. No longer the meek, mild women he first met when the turn began, she’s grown into something strong, welded from steel and bruises that have long faded but have never quite been forgotten.

But she’s tired.

This isn’t her war. It never has been and never will be.

Daryl doesn’t feel guilty when he grabs his crossbow from the hook it’s resting on. He doesn’t feel bitter or angry when he quickly laces up his boots and slips out the front door. The only thing that he really thinks is that this feels right. He’s tired of dragging people down with him – Beth, Denise, Glenn… He won’t do that to Carol.  

This is his burden to bear, his alone to carry. He has been to the depths of hell before – in Terminus, in the Sanctuary. He’s clawed his way back to earth not once but twice, and he can sure as hell do it again.

When he returns to Hilltop, he’s glad to see that it isn’t Sasha or Maggie that stands there as the gates part down the middle. It isn’t someone who’ll badger him with questions he doesn’t feel like answering. Paul merely steps aside and lets him rolls his bike inside, appearing not at all surprised to see him again so soon.

“Feel free to spend the night at my place,” Paul offers with a wry grin. There is a short pause before he continues. “Maggie and the others are staying there. Somethin’ tells me you’re not in any hurry to see them.”

He’d rather sleep on the ground outside, honestly.

“You can stay in one of the guest rooms in Barrington House. I’ve been crashing there since my trailer’s been overrun.” Paul huffs a small laugh. “Gregory would probably have a heart attack if he saw you though, so I might have to smuggle you in.”

“You don’t have to–” he starts but Paul shakes his head and interrupts him before he can finish his thought.

“I want to,” Paul tells him. “I’ve still got that deck of cards in my room if you ever wanted to play again.”

 

* * *

 

He wakes up with a start, staring up at a ceiling he doesn’t immediately recognize. The room is too big, the furniture too gold and too gaudy to be anything from Alexandria. When he sits up, his temples protest the sudden movement and Daryl hunches forward, fingers trying to ease the discomfort that crawls beneath his skin.

Something falls shut with a deafening ‘thump’. When Daryl searches for the source of the noise, he finds a familiar face staring at him with the barest hint of a smile. Just a few feet away, sitting in a simple beige accent chair, is Paul Rovia.

“You sort of fell asleep on the couch,” Paul tells him as a means of explanation. “Thought I’d just let you be. Seemed like you needed a good night’s rest.”

“How long was I out?” he manages to ask. His skull feels like it’s been split open and stuffed with tissue.

“Six hours – give or take some,” Paul answers.

“An’ you get a kick out of watchin’ other people sleep?” The idea of someone sitting in here while he slept, completely open and vulnerable, makes his skin itch unpleasantly. Even back at the prison with their separate cells, he felt like the walls were closing in on him

There is a large king-sized bed between them, shoved up against the wall. The kind of bed he and Merle once crashed on when they visited Atlanta in ’07 after Merle’s friend won a good sum at the casino. He stares at it for a moment, wondering if Paul had slept there just a few feet away. The covers look crisp and unwrinkled. Unused.

Paul hangs his head forward and chuckles, like Daryl said something funny. His fingers wrap around the object that’s situated in his lap. It takes Daryl a moment to realize that it’s a book.

“Your modesty is still intact, if that’s what you’re worried about,” the man teases, making Daryl’s cheek heat. “I didn’t get back here till an hour or so ago. Didn’t want Gregory finding you before I got to him.”

“You told him?”

“I told Maggie and Sasha,” Paul clarifies. “Maggie told Gregory and threatened to knock some sense into him, again, if he tried anything funny.”

“Again?” Daryl echoes blankly.

The skin next to Paul’s eyes wrinkles as his grin only grows by the second.

“Yeah,” he says with a hum. “Let me just say that your friend has a good right hook.”

An image of Maggie punching Gregory flickers through his mind. Part of him finds it hard to believe, but the other part of him isn’t at all surprised. He remembers seeing a similar streak of resilience in Beth Greene when she was still around. Maybe some of that spirit came from Maggie.

“Gregory’s a coward,” Paul tells him, point-blank. “But he’s easy to influence. Scare him enough, and he’ll do whatever you want.”

“Is that what she’s doin’?”

“And then some,” Paul answers with a nod.  “Anyways, Maggie wanted me to come get you when you woke up.” He pauses, seeming to hesitate. “You can’t avoid her forever, you know.”

“M’not,” he lies.

He can tell that Paul sees right through him, even if he doesn’t point it out. The smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes now and for a moment, Daryl feels like he’s being studied under a microscope. Nevertheless, Paul gets to his feet and deposits the book on the chair before walking to the door. It opens easily and Paul stops in the doorway, looking over his shoulder right at Daryl.

“C’mon.”

Daryl follows him wordlessly, lets the other lead him through the winding halls until they reach the first floor - where he knows the exit is. They don’t see Gregory, thankfully, but as soon as the sun hits his skin, he sees Maggie charging up towards them, Sasha and Enid hot on her heels.

“Why are you back so soon?” Maggie asks him without preamble. “Did you run into trouble at the Kingdom?”

She's worried. He can't really blame her for that either. The plan had been for him to hide at the Kingdom for as long as he could, until he had decided to cut that time unceremoniously short. He didn't exactly have the option of telling anyone at Alexandria or Hilltop that he changed his mind. (Not that he told Carol or anyone at the Kingdom either). 

“No,” he answers. If anything, he didn’t want the trouble following him there, throwing them into the pits of a war that they didn’t want any part of.

“Does Carol know you’re gone? Did you tell Rick that you were gonna come back here?”

The itch begins under his skin again. First, clawing at the sides of his throat, running down to his shoulders, his arms, his legs… Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Paul take a step forward, taking up the space between him and Maggie.

“Look, we’ll figure this out,” Paul begins, glancing between them. “But I think we could all use a break right now.”

“We don’t have time for a break, Jesus,” Maggie snaps.

Paul purses his lips. “We have time to get something to eat,” he says. “We can talk after that.”

He looks back at Daryl and motions for him to follow. Reluctantly, he does so, doing his best to shrug off Maggie’s displeased glare and Sasha and Enid’s blatant confusion. Maggie has every right to be mad at him. Every right to hate him – even though she doesn’t.

Anger he knows how to deal with.

Pity is something else.

Paul stops at one of the sheltered stands not far from the gate. The middle-aged woman with bright red hair smiles at him as soon as she sees him, but seems to pause when she notices Daryl. He smells something fresh and warm wafting from the stand. It doesn't take him long to notice the steaming pot situated behind her.

He finds out that it’s tomato soup when Paul hands him a bowl of it.

“Did you want to eat out here or in the trailer?” Paul asks him.

Wherever there’re less people, he thinks. He can feel a dozen pair of eyes watching his every move. It isn’t hard to remember that he doesn’t belong here. These people don’t know him at all.

“Is Maggie there?”

“Probably not,” Paul answers. “I didn’t see her go back.”

He shrugs halfheartedly, not wanting to drop the food in his hands.

“Trailer it is then,” Paul decides with a bright smile.

Something Daryl has noticed about the bastard – although Daryl doesn’t find himself tempted to punch him quite as often now – is that he's always smiling. Always happy, or appears that way at least. As if there’s something to be smiling about. He’s met people like that before – Beth being the first to pop into his mind – but he’s never understood them. Beth’s smile felt more innocent and optimistic, always honed in on that light at the end of the tunnel. Paul’s entire demeanor doesn’t remind Daryl of that at all.

Naïve is the last word he’d use to describe the man walking beside him. Daryl may not know him well, but he knows more than enough. Paul isn’t a fool and he isn’t blindly optimistic. Their first encounter tells Daryl that much.

“Paul!” someone calls out.

When he turns around, he sees a tall, broad man with blonde hair making his way towards them. He doesn’t seem to pay Daryl much mind.

“Go on without me,” Paul tells him before he goes to meet the man halfway.

He’s definitely confused, but he sees Paul’s trailer and continues towards it on his own. Daryl doesn’t stop and hesitate until he reaches the door. He glances over his shoulder, to see where Paul went off to, and finds him with that guy who shouted for him before. The man has a hand on Paul’s cheek – and Daryl promptly averts his eyes somewhere else with a strange, sudden heat building across his face.

Daryl heads on in without him. Enid is already there, eyes snapping towards him as soon as he opens the door. Well, he guesses he knows what Paul meant by it being overcrowded in here.

“Hey,” she greets – albeit a bit awkwardly. He doesn't know how long he remains in that doorway, face warm and fingers clammy, not quite able to muster a proper response. Enid doesn't seem to fare much better, hovering by the table while she gnaws on her lower lip.

Eventually, she glances down to the bowl in his hands.

“Let me get you a spoon for that.” Quickly, she scrounges through one of the drawers.

Daryl takes a breath before he walks in, taking in the familiar space spread all around him. He's been here before - and honestly, he prefers this in comparison to Barrington House. He doesn't feel so out of place here.

They sit at the small, wooden table and Daryl promptly digs in, doing his best to ignore the stifling silence that lingers on. Enid is seated across from him, sitting stiff as a board, rubbing anxiously at her arm. She is one of the many Alexandrians he never really got to know all that well.

Paul returns a few minutes later. As soon as those blue eyes meet his, Daryl looks back down to his soup. It’s an automatic reaction, one that he doesn’t particularly comprehend or understand, but he decides pretty quickly that he has no interest in introspection.

He tries to focus on the taste of his meal and drown out everything else. It works well enough for awhile but when Maggie and Sasha rejoin them, he’s forced to answer more questions than he cares to.

 

* * *

 

_IV. Now_

Familiar fingers comb through his hair, scratching lightly against his scalp. The motion isn’t enough to completely drown out the discomfort pulling within his skull, but it’s pleasant enough to make his eyes slip shut and nearly surrender to the drowsiness weighing his bones down. The body against him radiates warmth.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” Paul tells him quietly. Daryl can practically see the smile on his face, knows it’s there based on the tone of his voice alone.

“I’m not a bed, Daryl,” the other continues with a small string of laughter.

“Could be,” Daryl mumbles against Paul’s stomach.

He lets out a discontented groan when Paul’s fingers pull away from his head. Paul shifts against him, hands braced against his back to help him sit up. Predictably, his head protests against the movement, the pain red-hot, shooting down the back of his head like lightning bolts.

“Okay, let’s get you to bed – a real one this time,” Paul tells him as he pulls Daryl to his feet and begins guiding him towards the stairs. Daryl’s legs feel like lead but they haven’t given out on him yet.

When they reach their bedroom, Paul steers Daryl to the bed, urging him to sit down with his hands pressed flat against both of Daryl’s shoulders. The mattress dips beneath Paul’s weight when he takes a seat next to him. Quickly, Paul reaches over and switches on one of the bedside lamps. Then, he slips Daryl’s vest from his shoulders and begins working on the buttons of his shirt. Daryl quietly stoops forward and lays his head against the crook of Paul’s neck, sighing deeply.

In his hazy mind, he registers that Paul smells nice. Like strawberries.

“That tickles,” Paul says patting his head gently but not quite pushing him away.

“Ya smell good.”

Paul chuckles. “That’s my shampoo.”

He feels Paul’s fingers falling to the button of his cargo pants, nimbly snapping the button loose. Slowly, he pulls his head back.

“Tryin’ to get in my pants?”

“I think you’re too tired for anything like that,” Paul replies. “But I’m not letting you get the sheets dirty again because you fell asleep before you could change into some clean clothes.”

Daryl glances down at his lips, leans forward and twists his head so their noses don’t bump. Paul meets him halfway, fingers stilling.

Paul is smiling when he pulls back.

It makes him want to kiss him again. So he does. He snakes one hand up the back of Paul’s shirt, feeling the bend of skin and muscle trembling against him. His gut swims pleasantly when he hears Paul gasp quietly against him. The hand that was resting against the button of his pants rises to his face, pressing against his cheek.

“Daryl,” Paul mumbles against his mouth.

It falls on deaf ears. Instead, Daryl begins inching Paul’s thin cotton shirt up his back, taking in the heat of the other man’s skin like a starving animal to food.

Paul lightly tugs at Daryl’s hair to get his attention. Finally, Daryl reluctantly pulls away.

“I…I have to tell you something,” Paul tells him quietly. The smile on his face wavers, everything about the man’s demeanor exuding an air of nervousness that wasn’t there just moments ago.

Daryl sits back, puzzled. Dread curls in his gut, all sharp thorns and agony.

“I wanted to tell you earlier,” he begins, folding his hands on his lap, “but you were preoccupied with Rick and the others.” Paul takes a deep breath. “The supply run to Hilltop leaves tomorrow morning. I’m going with them.”

He’s angry, of course. They do runs together, it was a silent agreement they had before they even started this thing between them. Their skills compliment one another’s. If something goes awry, they both think well on their feet, enough to escape relatively unharmed. It wasn’t until after they began seeing one another that Daryl realized the other reason he needed to be there at Paul’s side was because he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if something happened to him and Daryl wasn’t there. The very thought of that is enough to make his stomach curl in on itself.

And Paul – he knows how Daryl feels about Hilltop. He definitely remembers how Daryl reacted less than two weeks ago to the mere idea of going there. Paul knows his history, knows how much Daryl doesn’t want to relive any of it.

“I’m going to be gone for a week.”

A run to Hilltop doesn’t take a week. The place is twenty miles away.

He sighs heavily, leaning forward and putting his face in his hands.

A lot could go wrong in a week.

Negan might have been defeated, trapped in a cell in the basement, but the Saviors haven’t changed their true colors. They just got better at hiding them.

The Sanctuary still exists.

“You don’t have to come,” Paul eventually continues. “I can’t force you to do anything you don’t want to.”

Daryl looks over at him, barely lifting his head. Paul stares back. For once, that happy facade he always puts on has been completely wiped away. The expression on his face is honest and raw.

“But you can’t tell me where I can and can’t go. That’s not your call to make, Daryl.”

He knows that. But he can’t help but think of all the things that can go wrong. It’s easy to picture Paul throwing himself into the line of fire to keep the people he cares for safe. There isn’t a shadow of doubt in his mind that Paul would sacrifice himself if it meant that Maggie and her son made it out.

It isn’t Paul being unable to protect himself that scares him – hell; Paul is probably one of the most capable fighters in Alexandria and Hilltop. No, it’s knowing how Paul operates, knowing how dedicated he is to the greater good, how he’ll go above and beyond to keep this alliance between the communities strong and safe.

There are times when Paul reminds Daryl of himself, almost alarmingly so. But Daryl has always been reckless, been more trouble than he’s worth. What people may mistake to be selflessness really is his own willingness to throw himself to the dogs, because he’s always been expendable.

Paul is anything but. He’s a pillar to this community, to the partnership between Hilltop and Alexandria. He’s every bit as important as Maggie; he’s a familiar face to the people that were once terrified of them. Unlike Daryl, his selflessness doesn’t come from a disregard for his own life. His selflessness is honest and true, not some sick, twisted desire for martyrdom.

Daryl knows how easy it is to lose someone in this world. The thought of losing Paul because of Daryl’s own inability to face his fears…

“M’gonna sleep on the couch,” he mutters, quickly buttoning his pants before he staggers to his feet.

A hand reaches out and takes hold of him by the forearm, stopping him in his tracks.

“Please, don’t,” he hears Paul whisper. “Just…don’t run away from me again.”

One look at Paul’s shattered expression is enough to make the flood of anger flowing through his veins stop cold. Quickly, he tears his arm away, like Paul’s touch burned him. He stares at the door for a moment, pondering how easy it would be to just step through that threshold and go downstairs to lick his wounds.

_He might not come back._

_This could be the last time ya see him._

The voice in his head sounds an awful lot like Merle.

Without a word, Daryl swivels on his heel and marches around the bed, lifting the sheets on the right side – where he typically sleeps. He crawls under them, keeping his back to Paul as he lies down. Fatigue tugs at his body but he feels too restless, lit up like a live wire waiting to go off.

For a moment, everything remains perfectly still. Unmoving. Eventually, Paul switches off the light and pushes his own body beneath the comforter. An arm wraps around his bare waist before Daryl feels Paul’s body press against his back. Paul’s lips lay against his the nape of his neck, warm and forgiving. They’re only there for a short time before Paul moves away. His head ends up close to Daryl’s shoulder blades.

Daryl looks down at Paul’s hand, barely discernible in the thick swathe of darkness. Hesitantly, he reaches for the other’s hand, allows Paul to thread their fingers together and just hold them like that. Daryl’s can’t help but think about how well they fit together.

_“You ever think about it? Settling down?”_

Yeah, he thinks. He has.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up alone. The sheets have long cooled. Daryl sits up, the grogginess fading fast while he grapples for his discarded shirt on the floor. He notices that the top drawer is partially open and when he peeks inside, he finds that a pile of clothing is missing. Paul’s bag that typically hangs on the hook on the door is gone as well.

The living room is empty. There isn’t even a simple note to be found.

However, he notices something odd on the kitchen counter. A piece of paper – no, there’s more than one he realizes when he comes closer. Daryl doesn’t sit there and read through every single one. His fingers quickly flip through the collection, takes in the names printed at the top of each page. A part of him is screaming that he doesn’t have time for this.

_“Dear Maggie…”_

The pile is thick enough to have been going on for months now. He sees his name in there a few times, eyes glazing over the pages too quick for any of the other words to sink in.

“Shit,” he curses under his breath. He marches to the door, squeezes into his boots, and grabs his crossbow without a second thought.

The curious and somewhat fearful gazes don’t faze him as he quickly makes his way to the front gate, desperately hoping he’s not too late. There are a thousand different words he wants to yell at that crafty bastard until his vocal chords go hoarse, until Paul fucking Rovia actually listens to him for once.

When he sees two vehicles situated at the gate, he knows they haven’t left yet. Rick’s there, of course, as is Carl and Aaron, hovering next to a beat-up Honda Accord. In the other car, he sees Paul’s silhouette already propped up in the front seat.

Without a word to the others, he climbs into the Subaru, ignoring Rick and the others’ prying eyes. Paul startles next to him, eyes wide like he’s actually surprised to see him. In any other circumstance, Daryl would be elated that he actually managed to get one over the ninja-kicking, roof-jumping asshole. But he’s too pissed off to feel anything but the seething anger that still buzzes beneath his skin.

“Um,” Paul begins, still blatantly taken aback. “Did you change your mind?” The question sounds so unsure that Daryl barely recognizes that it’s Paul who’s asking him that.

“Nah,” he practically spits back. “Came to tell ya you’re an asshole for takin’ off like that.”

Paul grimaces. “I…don’t do goodbyes really well to be quite honest.” He leans back against his seat. “It’s not even a goodbye. I’m gonna be back in a week.”

“And if you ain’t?”

Paul frowns, brow furrowing. Once again, Daryl feels like he’s being inspected beneath a microscope in some stiff lab full of white coats, rather than talking to someone he knows intimately well in a rundown piece of junk. He feels a nervous tumble in his stomach – and he can’t tell what’s worse, the mess in his mind or the anxiety rumbling within his abdomen.

“Daryl,” Paul says, voice soft. “I’m coming back. I’m gonna be fine, you know that.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t know that.”

“You’ve been on runs that lasted weeks,” Paul reminds him.

“Stopped goin’ after we got together,” Daryl says. At the beginning, he still took the occasional run to the Kingdom – because he used to enjoy getting away every once in a while. However, he quickly found himself growing homesick after a couple of days. After that, the longest he went away without Paul lasted less than three days – and that was only because they had to take a detour to get back. He and Paul had been together for nearly six months when he went – and that was the last run he went on that lasted longer than a day. The rest were always him and Paul.

“Is that what…?” Paul purses his lips, falling silent. “So, what are you actually angry about? Me asking you to see Maggie – or that I’m going to Hilltop without you?”

Daryl doesn’t answer.

“You can’t keep me here for the rest of my life, Daryl. We might be in a relationship, but that doesn’t mean you have any right to tell me where I can and can’t go.”

“M’not,” he protests but Paul’s seething glare makes his voice die in his throat.

“Isn’t that what you’re doing right now?”

He doesn’t know what he can say to that. He doesn’t have a single argument that Paul won’t stomp down on immediately.

“You have two choices,” Paul tells him. “You can go back to the house and pack some clothes and come with us. Or you can stay there and wait till I get back.”

 

* * *

 

_V. Then_

“You the religious type?”

Paul looks up at him with eyes that remind him of the sky. He sits there loosely, not kneeling down like some do, not folding his hands together like the others. Despite the nickname, he sticks out like a sore thumb in a place like this. Daryl knows that he isn’t any different.

“Contrary to popular belief, no,” the younger man replies with a quiet chuckle. “Not at all.”

Then, Paul climbs to his feet and shuffles through the empty row he was one seated in. He rubs his gloved hands on his pants, like he’s trying to clean them of something Daryl can’t quite see.

“Don’t you find it ironic we’re making war plans in a church of all places?”

Daryl stares at him, eyebrow raised, silently urging Paul to get to the point already. As he’s come to unfortunately learn, Paul likes to ramble on about everything and nothing. He dances around conversations like it’s a professional sport, as if he has something to gain by stretching absolutely trivial exchanges on and on until Daryl feels an ache building in his temples. Sometimes, it makes Daryl wish he would’ve left the guy in a tree after all.

They aren’t friends by any means. Comrades – in the barest sense of the definition. It’s a silent agreement between them – between all the communities now – that they’ve got each other’s backs. The war is raging outside these walls, and Daryl doesn’t see an end in sight. He wouldn’t be surprised if they all run out of bullets, resorting to knives and fists before a victor emerges from the ashes.

People have died – too many. Glenn. Abraham. Denise. Olivia. Sasha. Others whose names he doesn’t know from Oceanside, Hilltop, and the Kingdom. Their cemetery has run out of room to bury the bodies, and many graves remain unmarked because they haven’t had time to carve all the names. Father Gabriel does what he can with what little he has. People weep, they scream, they yell, they march to war.

Because now, when they lose someone, there’s no time to mourn.

At times, he can’t help but wonder who will be next. It could be Rick – who’s always out there on the front lines, even when he shouldn’t be. It could be Rosita – who’s grown increasingly reckless. It could by Paul – whose luck will run out one day. The ninja bullshit won’t help him dodge a blockade of bullets because he’s got skin like the rest of them.

It could easily be Daryl – and if he had to choose, he’d lay down his own life every time. There isn’t anyone waiting at home for him.

_“You ever think about it? Settling down?”_

Nah, he thinks. He doesn’t know anyone willing to put up with him. He ain’t worth the trouble, as everyone liked to say.

And Dixons weren’t nothing but trouble.

(They weren’t wrong).

“Hurry up,” he finally says. “We’re burnin’ daylight here.”

Paul only seems humored by him, holding up his hands in mock surrender as he makes his way back to Daryl’s side. They drift back into a welcomed silence – one that gives Daryl’s mind and body time to process, time to recover (not that he’ll ever be back to what he used to be).

That evening, they replace Aaron and Morgan up on the watchtower; guns slung over their shoulders as they sit there and wait. The sun makes its slow descent down the horizon line until it’s safely tucked beneath the endless lines of trees standing in the distance. Everything is still, as far as the eye can see, and it’s that silence – that absolute lack of movement – that makes his hair stand up on end.

It’s too quiet, he thinks.

He exhales loudly, watching the warm plume of smoke that rises in response, winding into thin tendrils until they eventually evaporate.

"So, is smoking a new vice of yours - or something you started before all this?"

Daryl lets his eyes slide to the man next to him, taking in that annoyingly smug grin of his. Even now, he thinks with something akin to irritation in his bones, in the middle of a war, the prick is still prodding at him. Knows just how to bury himself under his skin, until Daryl feels close to snapping. Hell, it's probably what he wants.

"Why's it matter?"

"It doesn't," Paul answers bluntly. "I'm just trying to pass the time, is all. Gets sort of boring sitting up here for hours on end, don't you think?"

"No."

For a moment, Paul stares at him with his mouth pressed in a thin line. Daryl can't really gather anything from his expression - never could, to be honest. It's always annoyed him how easy the man could rile him up, how he knew just what buttons to push while Daryl couldn't even read the prick. Even now, he doesn't know much about him. The only thing he's really picked up on in the past few weeks is how quick the guy can change faces. Grinning like an idiot one moment, terrifying as hell the next.

At times, he's grateful that they're on the same side of the battlefield.

Eventually, Paul tears his eyes away, returning to the vast scenery laid out in front of them. He still can't read the man's expression, but he can feel that the air has gone stiff between them. 

It makes him think for awhile. He remembers Paul charging out of the trees and attacking Negan head-on, holding his own in a fight Daryl figured he would've lost. He remembers the man lending him his clothes, letting someone who was practically a stranger walk around his trailer with full-access to whatever he wanted. How Paul let him, Maggie, Rick - all of them - in, knowing how dangerous the situation was.

He didn't have to be here. He could've lied, denied everything that went down with the satellite station. And yet, he's sitting here, at Alexandra, defending people whose names he doesn't even know.

"Started before," he says. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Paul looking at him again, one eyebrow raised. "Had my first one at twelve, kept goin' after that."

Daryl digs into his pocket and pulls out a familiar tattered box. He holds it out to Paul as a silent offering.

"I don't smoke," Paul tells him. "Not cigarettes at least."

He shrugs and stuffs it away again.

"But thanks anyway - for the offer, I mean." 

The smile stretched across the younger man's lips makes Daryl's face heat up. It makes his skin warm all the way under his collar, despite the night chill having long settled in. Quickly, he averts his eyes.

He knows what _this_ is.

He isn't stupid. He _knows_.

He's known for a long time now, since he was sixteen and realized Merle's dirty magazines did nothing for him. The shame he recalls well. Every time someone so much as looked at him wrong, his gut would sink - as if someone could take one look at him and just _know_. He remembers his old man talking about beating people like him, going on and on about how their very existence was wrong. Remembers the handful of times he saw Merle's friends going to town on a guy, until he was black and blue. He remembers knowing about the other times, when he wasn't around.

Then the world went to shit and things like that rarely popped into his head. They didn't matter - not like they used to, at least. His old man isn't around to beat him bloody now that he's long gone and ten feet under. People don’t have the luxury of being picky about the company they keep anymore. The color of your skin, the gods you choose to pray to, the people you choose to share a bed with – none of that matters. What does is how good of a shot you are.

So, he doesn't feel the bile rising in his throat anymore. The shame has slowly subsided with time, feels practically insignificant compared to the other shit he's done. He met people like Aaron, Eric, Tara, and Denise - who showed him how wrong his father and his brother were. He knows the company he keeps now wouldn't bat an eye - if anything, they'd probably be thrilled he found someone.

He can't deny this thing silently building between them. Can't quite stop himself from looking - takes in the long hair and pretty eyes, begins finding that smart mouth less difficult to tolerate with every passing day. He notices that he holds up well in this world, that he's got the physical and mental fortitude a lot of them wished they had. Kind where others are cruel. Dauntless where others cower in fear. There are a lot of things he's discovered, things that began stacking up and taking form. He supposes it was inevitable - still is, even if he tries to pretend it doesn't exist.

But all he has to do is think about the Saviors - how he probably won't make it out of this, how he probably won't have to deal with it anyway. He thinks about Maggie and Tara, who deserve someone more than he does - how he should've been the one that took the arrow or the bat. He thinks about the blonde guy back at Hilltop who is obviously someone important to Paul.

Things are easier this way.

That's what he tells himself, at least.

 

* * *

 

_VI. Now_

Her hair is longer than he remembers, the wavy auburn tips barely touching her shoulders. Her stomach is flat now, once again, but he doesn’t see the baby anywhere in sight. The hat situated upon her head used to be Glenn’s – that much he can tell even from a fair distance.

Daryl lingers in the SUV while Paul and the others don’t share the same reluctance, stepping out into Hilltop with easy smiles and open arms. He silently watches as Paul and Maggie share a quick hug, as Carl and Enid share secretive smiles and slink off to God-knows-where. Aaron stops to speak to someone Daryl doesn’t recognize.

The nerves only eat away at him, growing more and more ravenous with each passing second. He sees Maggie staring over in his direction, like she’s going to march over to the SUV at any given moment, but Paul says something that makes her turn away with a wrinkled frown. Daryl lets out a ragged breath.

He really doesn’t want to be here.

In fact, he’d rather be about anywhere _but_ here.

Paul returns, alone, and knocks on the door, despite knowing that it’s unlocked. Reluctantly, Daryl cracks it open, only an inch or so until Paul pulls it back so that he can fit through the gap.

“Aaron’s gonna take this back to Alexandria with all of the supplies they gave us,” Paul informs him, tapping on the SUV’s exterior for emphasis. “If you want, you can go with him. Or, you can stay here with me. It’s your call, Daryl.”

“Ain’t leavin’ ya here,” Daryl tells him.

“Alright,” Paul says with a nod. “Then you should grab your stuff. Maggie’s giving us one of the guest rooms.” He pauses, fingers fiddling against the edge of the side window. “Or did you want your own room?”

Daryl stares at him like he’s lost his mind.

“Okay, I’m taking that as a ‘no’ to the separate rooms, then,” Paul concludes with the barest hint of a smile.

He ends up grabbing both their bags before he hops out of the vehicle. Paul spares him an incredulous glance but never tries to tug his bag back, seemingly content with letting Daryl do all of the arm-work. Knowing Paul, he’s probably more than okay with this development. Heavy lifting has never been Paul’s forte.

During the short walk to their temporary dwelling, he never sees Maggie. He passes by a few faces he recognizes, some he doesn’t, as they make their way to the second floor. It isn’t until they’re safely tucked away in a room that Daryl mildly remembers that Paul finally turns to him and explains himself.

“I told Maggie that I had to basically drag you here by the skin of your teeth,” he tells Daryl bluntly. “Said that you needed some time.”

Daryl drops their bags on the spacious bed and goes to take a seat on the couch. He doesn’t know what to say, where to look, what to do. So, naturally, he brings his thumb to his mouth and chews on the nail until he feels the flare of nerves slowly simmer down.

“I think we need to have a talk – you and me,” Paul continues. The younger man takes a seat on the bed, shrugging out of his leather coat. Daryl still can’t understand why Paul wears that thing during the summer months.

When Daryl glances up at his expression, it only makes the nerves return with a fury. He wonders if this is when Paul’s going to tell him it’s over, that Daryl is too much trouble even in a world as fucked up as this one.

“You…” Paul heaves a deep, tired sigh. “We’re not always going to be attached at the hip, Daryl. We’re two separate people. You can’t panic every time I go off somewhere by myself.”

“You’ve gone on runs without me,” Daryl says.

“That lasted a day at most,” Paul corrects. “It’s like you said, when we got together, everything became a ‘you and me’ thing.”

“Thought that’s what relationships are supposed ta’ be,” he mutters. Not that he would know. Paul has been a lot of firsts for him.

“Relationships are a partnership, yes. But they’re not supposed to be suffocating.”

Before Paul can say anymore, Daryl snaps, “Is that what ya think m’doin’?”

Paul freezes up.

“No,” he immediately answers. “No, no, no.” He jumps to his feet and closes the distance between them, taking a seat on the couch next to Daryl.

“Poor choice of words,” Paul whispers, mostly to himself it seems. He reaches out and lays a hand on Daryl’s arm, hesitant, as if asking ‘is this okay’. When Daryl doesn’t shrug him away, those fingers begin carefully caressing the skin there.

“What I mean is that, although I love being with you, there are things I need to do on my own. Likewise, I think there are things you need to do for yourself.”

“Like what?” he can’t help but ask.

“Well, I think you should talk to Maggie, for one. It would be good – for the both of you.” Daryl tries to swallow that lump in his throat. Just the thought of it makes him uneasy.

Those fingers pause on his arm. It makes Daryl look up at the man, puzzled. Paul stares back, gnawing on his lower lip like he always does when he overthinks things.

“Can I be honest with you?” Paul asks.

“M’not made a’ glass,” he grumbles in return.

“I know that you blame yourself for what happened to Glenn.” Daryl nearly pulls away, but Paul’s grip seems to tighten around his arm - as if he predicted that Daryl would try to run. Eventually, he forces himself to remain seated there, silences the voice in the back of his head that’s begging him to get up and flee.

“That you blame yourself for a lot of things,” Paul continues after a moment. “I know I wasn’t there for a lot of it, but you can’t keep going on like this. You can’t keep blaming yourself for every single thing that goes wrong – because it’s not your fault that there are bad people in this world, Daryl.”

Merle died because Daryl wasn’t there, bled out right there on the ground while Daryl was God-knows-where. Beth died because Daryl wasn’t enough to stop her from being taken by those assholes at Grady Memorial. Denise died because he was naïve enough to believe a group of strangers in the woods. Glenn died because Daryl couldn’t stop and think, just for a single fucking second, what would happen if he…

“It’s not your fault,” he hears Paul tell him, again, pulling him close. Daryl nearly collapses against him, tucks his head into the crook of Paul’s neck, where he can feel Paul’s pulse beating against his cheek. He shuts his eyes when they begin to sting.

“So stop trying to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders when you don’t have to.” There’s a tremor in Paul’s voice that wasn’t there before, but Daryl can’t find the strength to raise his head. Soon, he feels Paul’s lips at the edge of his hairline, his fingers smoothing back a few strands.

“You have me. You have Rick. Carol. Aaron. Maggie.” Paul pushes him back gently, until he can see the man’s watery smile.

“Please, don’t ever think you’re alone in this – because you’re not.”

For the first time, Daryl begins to believe him.

 

* * *

 

He finds her in the study. Her eyes go wide when she first looks up at him, and she opens her mouth to say something only to close it a moment later. The clock on the walls ticks away as they stare at one another, both unsure of how to proceed. Eventually, Daryl shuts the door behinds him and advances a step before pausing again.

This could be a mistake. Maybe she doesn’t want to see him. Maybe Paul was wrong.

But, that’s as far as his thoughts reach because Maggie finally clambers to her feet, takes three large strides towards him, and wraps her arms around his middle. Daryl is unsure of himself, unsure of all this honestly, but he folds a careful around her back as well.

“Thought you wouldn’t come here,” he hears her say.

“Didn’t want to,” Daryl tells her honestly. He still doesn’t, if he’s being truthful with himself.

Slowly, Maggie backs away from him. She wipes away the tears in her eyes, and Daryl looks to the floor, a twinge of guilt coursing through him because he knows that he’s the reason she’s crying to begin with.

“Jesus told me that.”

Daryl’s not surprised. He wonders when Paul told her – in the letters or after they got here?

“I just want you to know that you’re welcome here anytime, Daryl,” Maggie continues.

“Shouldn’t be,” he mutters. Glenn’s face flashes through his mind. No, he thinks, he shouldn’t be welcomed here with open arms. It doesn’t matter what Paul tells him.

Maggie reaches out and lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. The movement is enough to make him look up, to take in the small smile on her face. The only thing that goes through Daryl’s mind is pure confusion – because Maggie shouldn’t forgive him.

“Can I show you somethin’?”

She leads him outside, where she's greeted by a variety of warm smiles and pleasant words from people he hardly remembers. Daryl follows without uttering a word. He knows where she's taking him.

Bunches of little white buds have bloomed all around this tiny, desolate location – lily of the valley he discerns a second later. They weren’t here before, as far as he knows at least. He’d seen this place in passing, but he never stopped here like the others did every week or so. Daryl could never muster the strength or the courage to visit this place when he stayed at Hilltop all those months ago. He couldn’t even look for too long without tasting bile in his throat, let alone set foot in these parts.

Maggie came here every morning, according to Paul.

She probably still does.

He watches her kneel down next to one of the three burials. They aren’t unmarked anymore – not since the Saviors had been defeated. Three tiny crosses with three different names had been assembled over each grave.

Glenn Rhee.

Abraham Ford.

Sasha Williams.

“No one leaves flowers anymore,” Maggie tells him with a wry smile. “Don’t need to.” She gestures to the tiny flowers all around. “Enid planted these – though Jesus helped, I think.”

Daryl wouldn’t be surprised if he did. That sounds an awful lot like something Paul would do.

“Sometimes, I like to sit here and talk to him,” she continues. “I’ve brought Hershel out here a few times – I’m gonna keep doin’ that too.”

In his mind, he pictures Maggie carrying her baby out here. Pictures tiny, chubby fingers grabbing for the petals, not quite able to understand just whose name is carved into that cross. He won’t understand for a long time but one day, he will.

“They may not be here with us now, but they’ll live on as long as we remember them.”

Finally, Daryl allows himself to look down, to read the names etched across each block of wood. Maggie lets him take it all in with nothing more than a warm smile and a comforting presence. She doesn’t say anything when Daryl finally steps closer and takes a seat on the ground, less than an arm’s length away from her.

She doesn’t speak when he slowly unravels right there and then, unable to squeeze the tears back. Instead, she gently rubs his back while he sits there and cries.

 

* * *

 

“He’s small,” Daryl says when he first lays eyes on the tiny ball of limbs and dark brown hair staring up at him in the crib. Paul was right, he thinks, he does look a lot like Glenn. The nose though – the nose is all Maggie.

“‘Course he is,” Maggie replies with an amused chuckle. “He’s only a few months old.”

She leans down and gently pulls him out of the crib – the very one Daryl put together before he returned to Alexandria for good. It was back when he and Maggie were still talking. He remembers sitting in this room night and day until that thing was impeccable and steady, because he knew without the shadow of a doubt that Glenn would’ve done the same thing.

“Wanna hold him? Maggie asks him with that same stubborn look in her eyes that she’s had since they’ve met. Daryl doubts she’ll accept anything but a ‘yes’.

Paul, the damn prick, is staring at this debacle from the doorway, an amused smile tugging at either end of his lips.

“I’ve seen you with Judith. And she was just a newborn when you held her,” Maggie reminds him. She turns back to Paul, grinning brightly now. “He may not look like it, but Daryl’s pretty good with babies.”

Daryl has held babies before – Judith was hardly the first. But he wouldn’t say he's _good_ with them. As soon as they started screaming, he was always more than ready to hand them back.

“Oh, is he now?” Paul asks with a raised brow.

He feels his cheeks beginning to burn.

Before Daryl can stop her, Maggie is pulling at his arms, placing his hands where they need to be in order to hold Hershel Jr. without the possibility of dropping him. She steps away, clearly pleased with herself, before she pads over to the white painted dresser pushed up against the wall. When she turns back around, Daryl notices an old camera in her hand.

Oh, no.

“Jesus, can you take picture of us?” Maggie quickly hands the man the camera before she returns to Daryl’s side. Much to Daryl’s dismay, Paul is more than eager to follow her command and raises the camera until he’s pleased with the angle.

“Say cheese,” Paul says before Daryl hears a snap sound from the boxy device, a white slip sliding through its mouth.

(In the end, they take another photograph. Only, Maggie is the one behind the camera and Paul is the one standing next to him. When the flash goes off, Paul pecks him on the cheek. He doesn’t miss Maggie handing Paul that photo, and he certainly doesn’t miss Paul slipping it into one of his pockets).

 

* * *

 

“So, you and Maggie are good, right?” Paul asks after they return to their temporary dwelling. The words sound nonchalant to his ears but he knows the weight of them. Paul has always been the one who worried too much, thought too long about things Daryl generally didn't want to linger on. The fight flickers through his mind, the pained expression stretched across Paul's face when Daryl stomped out. He remembers seeing that same expression, again, when he returned that evening - when Paul told him never to leave like that again.

“Yeah,” he answers. “Yeah, we talked.”

"Good, I'm glad." He can hear the relief in the younger man's voice. 

Daryl takes a seat on the tattered orange couch, quietly watching Paul amble around the room. Paul pulls out a few things from his bag, from Daryl's as well, depositing the items on the bed. He narrows his eyes on the darker garment hanging near the edge of the bed. It's not the leather jacket Daryl's accustomed to seeing most days, but it is one of Paul's sweaters (one he pulled off a rack in a store less than a month ago).

When Paul pulls out a bottle of rum, Daryl raises his brow. 

"So, I might've gotten ahead of myself," Paul begins with a small smile. "But I was thinking we could do some stargazing tonight - if you're up to it."

He probably packed the bottle before he even knew whether or not Daryl was going to tag along. 

"What would ya have done if I wasn't here?"

"Gone by myself, I guess," Paul replies with a shrug. "It doesn't really matter now, does it?"

"Guess not."

"So, stargazing?" Paul asks again, this time waving the bottle of rum in his hand. 

He agrees to go.

This is something they've done countless times before, sitting on Daryl's porch during late nights when the sky was clear. Much like tonight, he thinks when Paul leads him outside. Summer skies have always been the best for this sort of activity, when there's no rain or heavy clouds trudging along even after the sun's gone down.

In some ways, he supposes, the stars bring him comfort. Even when the dead started walking, the stars above them never changed shape. It didn't matter where they were or who they lost, all he had to do was look up to find a piece of a home that was both familiar and strange.

He remembers being afraid of the woods after he got lost as a kid. Just the very thought it happening again made him stay indoors out of fear alone, despite his pa's drunken anger. He always stopped eventually, the bruises left in his wake fading with time, but Daryl had wandered around aimlessly for a week out there. It could've been longer and ended up much worse if it wasn't for a bit of luck. 

Then, he found an old book about constellations and stars, read through it at least fifty times before he finally allowed himself to venture back into the woods behind his house. Within a couple hours, he had found his way back. 

Now, when he looks up, he knows he can find his way home.

Paul takes him to a place near the fence, somewhere nestled in the back next to a couple of trees. They sit together in the grass, passing the bottle back and forth every so often. His skin feels warm where his shoulder lays against Paul's. It's a comforting warmth, he decides.  

"I think we finally found something I'm bad at," Paul jokes when he incorrectly names yet another formation hanging above them.

"Finally?" Daryl scoffs before he takes a sip from the bottle. 

"Hey, don't burst my bubble." Paul knocks his shoulder against Daryl's lightly, chuckling quietly.

They don't see anyone walk by while they sit out there with only one another as company, the rum slowly depleting between the two of them. This place is further back than anyone wants to wander apparently. Daryl wonders if Paul came out here before, if there ever was someone else sitting next to him. The blonde Hilltop nurse comes to mind almost immediately, the kiss on Paul's cheek all those months ago when they were practically strangers. The thought makes the rum taste bitter on his tongue.

"You come out here before?" he hears himself ask. He must've been drunker than he thought, too inebriated to separate the thoughts in his mind from the words coming out of his mouth. 

"A few times," Paul answers, affirming Daryl's suspicions. "Mostly to get away. Hardly got a moment of rest before you guys got here."

Back when Daryl stayed here, he remembers how the people of Hilltop practically flocked around the man like he actually was a saint. But then he thinks of Gregory, thinks about how a lot of the people here were cowards, and remembers why he never found that revelation particularly surprising. Paul was - and still is, in some ways - one of the only reliable people in this community. It's probably a large part of the reason why Paul is so fond of Maggie. It's someone else to share the burden with, someone Paul can depend on.

That circle has grown exponentially, he supposes.

He looks back up to the night sky, the taste of rum still stuck in the back of his throat as he feels Paul's eyes on his skin.

"Why - is something on your mind?"

Daryl shrugs, not meeting the other's prying gaze. He knows if he does, Paul will see right through him. He always has.

"You're the only person I've brought out here with me, if that's what you're getting at."

This time, Daryl can't stop himself from glancing towards the younger man. He's both surprised and not - because Paul knows him well, better than he thinks he knows himself sometimes.

"What about...?" He never knew the blonde guy's name - never wanted to ask, to be honest.

"Alex?" Paul guesses. "We weren't really anything. He wanted more and I...well, I didn't. That was it."

The words sound so monotone when they echo in his ears, almost like they're being read out of a book. He makes it sound so simple, so insignificant despite the short moment being replayed in Daryl's head over and over again. It didn't look like nothing back then. There's more to it than that, he's certain of it.

He's seen this side of Paul before, not often but just enough that he's aware it's there - that it exists. The side that isn't so kind or welcoming, that hangs off alone in the corner. The part of him that doesn't at all resemble the saint he was jokingly nicknamed after. It's this hidden part of him that scares Daryl the most because he can't help but think that Paul will grow tired of him one day and toss everything they've built together away, like it was nothing more than something to pass the time. 

_No one wants a Dixon, baby brother._

He thinks it's the rum that's messing with his mind but he's helpless to stop that worry that's gnawing at his insides, anew, like it did the first time it passed through his mind. It's the rum that's making Merle's voice louder than thunder in his head.

"Hey," he hears Paul say, voice light, nudging him again. "You got awfully quiet over there. Something wrong?"

"It's nothin'."

He doubts Paul believes him. But the man stares at him for a moment before he nods and averts his eyes elsewhere, the half-empty bottle hanging loosely in his hand. 

"What I said before, I meant it," Paul eventually begins again. "And this thing between us isn't the same as what I had with Alex. For one, I actively pursued you." Daryl can hear the drunken lilt in his voice. Unlike before, there's nothing bright or jovial about him. It sounds raw - and a part of Daryl wonders if he hit a nerve or said something he shouldn't have.

"Alex and I were never in love, but I know I'm in love with you." Next to him, Paul sucks in a sharp breath. "Honestly, it scares me sometimes. I've never cared so much about someone else - not like this."

And then, Paul is shaking his head, his free hand anxiously twisting around his knee. The sound that leaves his lips is supposed to be a laugh, he thinks, but it doesn't sound anything like one. It's too quiet. Too broken.

"I know I'm a lot of firsts for you, but you're a lot of firsts for me too, Mr. Dixon." The smile that stretches across his face is warm and honest, looks more like the Paul he's become accustomed to. The one that makes him wonder what could be.

But there's a dampness in his eyes that wasn't there before. It makes Daryl's chest clamp up tightly.

“Now, yer jus’ makin’ shit up," he mutters. He can feel a familiar heat building in his cheeks.

“Oh, what, you don’t believe me?” Paul asks him with a lighthearted chuckle. “I’m being serious, here. You're the reason I got my shit together after all this time. And it’s not every day you run into someone like you.”

“Like me?” he repeats incredulously. There were whole towns of people like him back in Georgia. And being compared to those people was never a compliment.

“Yes, like you. Brave. Selfless. Heart of gold. That was hard to find before, nearly impossible to find now.” Paul reaches over and places his hand over Daryl's in the grass. Daryl tangles their fingers together, thumb sliding over one of Paul's knuckles absently. He can't feel the scars but he knows they're there.

“Though, you’re sometimes too selfless for your own good.” Paul pauses. “You don’t want to know how many times I didn’t expect you to come back when we were fighting the Saviors. May have not known you as well as I do now, but I knew you wouldn’t hesitate to take a bullet for someone else.”

He’s not wrong, Daryl thinks. He would've done that in a heartbeat - for Rick, for Maggie, for Paul, for any of them. 

“That’s why when you told me you were worried I wouldn’t come back…” Paul exhales a long, tired sigh. “I worry about you every single day, because I know there’s always a chance you won’t come back. When something goes wrong, you’re always one of the first people there.”

Paul shifts against him, their shoulders resting against one another's once more. He can feel the tips of Paul's hair brush against the edge of his shoulder as the man leans more of his weight against him. 

“Now, you know how I feel, I guess."

“I ain’t gonna die on you.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Daryl.” The words are clipped, like a lash against his skin. Makes him feel lower than dirt – even though he knows Paul doesn’t mean it that way.

Years ago, he read somewhere in a book that home wasn't a place - it was a person. Well, he's got a home now, someone who's waiting for him on the other end of the door, waiting for him to return safe and sound. He's got a reason to watch his own skin out there, a reason he can't fight quite as selflessly - and selfishly - as he once used to.

Shit ain't settled, but it's close enough that he lets himself consider the possibilities. He lets himself look forward, imagine what could be until it's so vivid that he can see it behind his eyelids.

“Not leavin’ you either.”

That promise he can keep.

“Guess we’re in this for the long run then,” Paul concludes before he raises his head and kisses Daryl straight on the lips. Daryl pushes a hand against the back of Paul’s head, holding him close, until he can smell Paul’s strawberry shampoo and taste the rum on his tongue.

_We are._

 

* * *

 

_VII. Then_

He almost lost him – was practically forced to watch it happen right in front of him, just feet away, unable to do a damn thing to stop it. All he can see behind his eyelids now is that red, skinless walker stretching from its hiding spot behind the dumpster and nearly taking a chunk out of Paul’s arm. That stupid leather coat is the only reason Paul isn’t ten feet under right now.

The only reason Daryl didn’t have to drag another lifeless body back to Alexandria…

Spinning between his fingers is one of his hunting blades, the steel edge glaring bright and sharp-toothed. As soon as the memory passes – again, he shoves the end of it into the damp soil a few inches away from his knee, where the metal sinks in with ease. Pulls it out and does it again and again until that horrible knot in his throat has dissipated once more.

A week has passed since the near fatal accident at the convenience store. Seven days of fuming rage, gritted teeth, and one word answers because he’s too angry to deal with everyone else. Angry at himself – for being too slow, angry at Paul – for running off without a word, angry at the world – because apparently having Merle’s blood on his hands wasn’t enough. Neither was having Beth’s or Denise’s or Glenn’s on his hands as well, no, the world just takes and takes until there’s nothing left but ash and dust.

It makes him feel small, like he’s five again and watching his old man taking a belt to Merle’s skin. When the only thing he could do was stand there and cry because he was _afraid_. Scared of his pa, scared of Merle’s friends who had blank ink stained across their arms, scared of the woods because he didn’t know the way home.

His fingers are soaked in mud as they yank his knife from the ground. He reaches around his belt and takes out his red rag to clean off what he can before he tucks the weapon back into his boot. He leans back against the trunk of the oak tree with a ragged breath, tilts his head towards the overcast sky hanging above him.

Today, there isn’t a sliver of blue in sight. As far as the eye can see is a stretch of putrid, lifeless gray color that reminds him much more of the dead than anything else. Autumn is already here, and after it comes winter. The snow will come – and while he’s dealt with below freezing temperatures, he’s never had to survive such conditions after the walkers started roaming.  

Part of him expects something to go horribly wrong. Peace won’t last long here. It never does. He remembers the Governor, Woodbury, all of it. How a man they thought to be dead showed up at their gates and swung a sword at Hershel’s neck. He remembers how the prison burned to the ground, how long it took all of them to find one another again.

It’s only a matter of time until the Saviors decide they’ve had enough. They’ll come to Alexandria first, to seek revenge against the catalyst to Negan’s demise.

He exhales a plume of smoke, idly watching the gray streams fade into nothing.

The cigarettes don’t do much for him anymore. The addicting hunger is temporary at best, akin to a nag tugging in the back of his mind rather than something that claws at the edges of his stomach, yanking at his bones until he gives in. There’s too much on his mind, he supposes. Too much to really enjoy anything anymore.

Daryl doesn’t head back until the sky begins to dim. He snuffs out his cigarette, steps on it with his boot for good measure, before he wanders back into the familiar winding streets.

It begins to rain as he treads through the neighborhood, just a small drizzle that’s barely enough to be mildly irritating. It makes his hair stick unpleasantly to his skin, strands falling too close to his eyes.  

He has to pass by Paul’s place every time he goes back. It’s the only route that takes him to his own home, so he’s sucked it up, kept his distance, and never spared the property so much as a glance.

Until now, that is.

The light illuminated against the curtains is what catches his attention initially. Normally, there aren’t any signs of life in that uniform, two-story house when he walks by. Today, however, he can see a familiar silhouette outlined in one of the windows.

A week has passed since they’ve last spoken. Daryl had seen him moseying around after the fact and at the time, had decided that knowing Paul was still alive, not bitten or dead, was enough for him. Every time he caught a glimpse of the man, flashes of what happened outside the store would always play in his mind like an old black and white movie. Then, the guilt, the anger, and the what-ifs followed not long after and sent him spiraling down into that dark place his old man opened in his mind as a child. Daryl came to the conclusion that avoiding Paul altogether was the best alternative.

Yet, he finds himself rooted here, staring up at the prick’s window. Watches him wander off somewhere out of sight, before he’s back again in the blink of an eye. He thinks about the easy camaraderie they had up until the incident. How he naturally gravitated towards Paul – all the way back when he first escaped the Saviors because Paul never asked him questions. Never made him talk about the things Daryl could see, hear, and think but never quite say.

But he always listened. He accepted Daryl’s one word answers without argument, didn’t push for anything more. Paul was – and still is – like a steady rock, always there when he searches hard enough but not overbearing in the slightest. Simply put, he lets Daryl be.

He thinks about how easy it would be for Paul to just vanish. Thinks about how many people whose lives had ended in front of his very eyes. The process is both quick and long-winding, less than a moment when it’s a well-aimed bullet, sometimes hours when it’s a walker or a knife, but there is always a moment of recognition that passes through their eyes – clarity as transparent as glass. When they know that this is it.

Paul’s eyes are decorated in flecks of green, more green than blue up close. If eyes could smile, they’d look a lot like Paul’s. Wide, aware, and practically sparkling with vigor, skin crinkling at the furthest corners when he laughs. Daryl has seen them brimmed with terror that shakes him down to the bone. Seen them darting around with helpless desperation. Seen them give in.

He doesn’t want to see that again.

No, he wants to see them continue to dazzle with life, remain joyful and vibrant. He wants to feel the warm tingling sensation beneath his skin whenever Paul clasps a fleeting hand on his shoulder. He wants to hear Paul’s laugh until it’s imprinted in his brain.

Daryl brings his thumb to his mouth, anxious as the cogs in his mind whirl faster and faster. Eventually, he drops his arm back down to his side and forces himself to take a step forward. And another. And another. Until he’s face to face with a familiar slab of plain wood.

He takes a deep breath and knocks on the door.

 

* * *

 

_VIII. Now_

“How’d you…?” he trails off, uncertain, making a vague gesture with his hand. Rick follows the movement, the amused smile that wormed across his lips growing bigger with every passing second. Eventually, Daryl’s eyes settle on the plain silver band adorning Rick’s finger. It doesn’t take long for Rick’s to put the pieces together after that.

“How’d I ask her to marry me?” Rick guesses, glancing back down once more at his wedding band.

There is a knot that works its way up Daryl’s throat now. It makes it hard for him to breathe, let alone utter a word. So, he musters a curt nod, averting his eyes to the floor beneath their feet.

Part of him wants to turn on his heel and walk right out that door. Wants to pretend none of this ever happened.  That ugly voice in the back of his mind that sounds an awful lot like Merle berates him for doing something like this anyway.

_Rick’s gonna laugh at you._

_He’s gonna say ‘no’_.

_No one in their right mind wants a Dixon, lil’ brother._

“It just…happened,” Rick tells him over the noise in his head.

Instinctively, Daryl looks up at him. Rick smiles back, knowingly, as he leans against the countertop. The baby monitor isn’t far, situated up against the toaster. Judith might be of talking age, but she’s still too young to defend herself. Until she can hold a gun or a knife, that device isn’t going anywhere.

“I mean, we talked about it before,” his friend continues after a lull. “Never got around to it till I had a ring in my hand.” He scratches his cheek, chuckling quietly. “It wasn’t even the right size.”

“How’d ya know?” he finds himself asking. After Lori, after Jessie, how did Rick _know_? Daryl has nothing in his life – before or after the turn – to compare Paul to. There wasn’t anyone else. The only person he ever opened up to had been his own brother and even then, he maintained a careful distance between them.

As the years passed, he figured dating was too much trouble. Stability had always been a pipe dream since he and Merle were always moving. Anything above that – something permanent – had never even been a fleeting thought. Honestly, he never thought he’d ever get this far.

Rick shrugs. “Just did.” Then he stares at Daryl until that nervous itch returns under his skin. “Why? You thinkin’ of poppin’ the question?”

“Dunno,” Daryl answers.

The fact that he’s even considering something like that is a lot for him to process. He can’t even get the words out right now, and he doesn’t have a ring. Bending down on one knee, well, he doesn’t know if he’d do that. Can’t imagine himself doing that, really.

There’s always the possibility that Paul will turn him down. Daryl doesn’t know what he’d do if that happened. Would that mean everything between them would be over – just vanish into nothing overnight? Just the idea of _that_ makes him want to throw up. 

“Well, if you ever come to a decision, I’m here if you ever need me,” Rick tells him sincerely, which still makes Daryl feel odd.

Even how, he’s not used to this. Not accustomed to people lending an open ear, let alone thinking anything he had to say held any significance.

“Just a word of advice, if you do go through with this, there’s a blacksmith at the Kingdom,” Rick adds just as Daryl readjusts the band of his crossbow.

Daryl flushes - because he remembers how Rick and Michonne sent that piece of paper to the Kingdom, how Ezekiel personally oversaw the delivery of the rings, giving his blessing before he and that tiger slipped back into the woods, a cavalry of horses and men bearing crafted armor following behind. Just the thought of something like that happening to him – because he knows Carol has a lot of sway with the self-proclaimed king – makes him want to curl up in a dark corner and never come out.

Based on Rick’s humored expression, Daryl doesn’t doubt he said that last bit just to get under his skin. Daryl rolls his eyes, scuffs the toe of his boot against the kitchen linoleum, before he makes a wordless exit. He heads to the gate, where he’s going to be on watch for the next few hours. Hopefully, it’ll be enough to clear his head.

 

* * *

 

“Welcome home,” Paul tells him when he walks through the front door, kissing him on the side of the mouth as he always does. Daryl holds him there, dragging their lips together, savoring the sound of Paul’s surprised – but pleased – laugh against his mouth.

When they part, Paul is still smiling, warm and inviting. It sends a pleasant buzz that runs all the way to his toes. The fatigue heavy in his shoulders lessens into something more manageable, promptly shoved into the back of his mind. The only feasible thought running through his mind is how much he loves the man standing in front of him.

How much he wants to come home to this for the rest of his life.

“So, you visited Rick today,” Paul comments after he kicks off his shoes and nearly collapses onto the couch. It’s not a question, he realizes. Slowly, he narrows his eyes, a rumble of panic tumbling through him.

For once, Paul’s surefire confidence seems to falter. Even in the dim light, Daryl can see the pink tinge dusted across his cheeks. He chews on his lower lip, as he does whenever he’s anxious and wary. It becomes more apparent with every passing second, and the horror budding in the pit of Daryl’s stomach only grows.

He opens his mouth, but can’t quite find the words to say. It feels as if all the moisture has been sucked out, taking his ability to utter a coherent thought with it.

“I went to ask Rick something about inventory,” Paul eventually continues, not budging from the entryway. “But you were already there. So, I waited in the other room.”

“How much…?” he manages to get out through gritted teeth.

“Most of it, I think,” the younger man admits, wincing slightly. He crosses his arms over his middle; rubbing at his bicep with a nervousness that mirrors his own. Daryl wonders if the nerves are beginning to eat him alive, if they can burrow so deep that they gnaw on his bones.

“So, you wanna marry me?” Paul’s chuckle is quiet, but Daryl hears it loud and clear. He understands the meaning behind it perfectly.

Of course, Daryl thinks with a white-hot flash of anger coursing through him, it’s just a joke to him. Everything is a colossal joke to Paul. Why did Daryl think what he thought they had would be any different?

No one wants a Dixon - just like his brother always said.

He should've known better. 

“Daryl?”

He didn’t even hear Paul close in on him, doesn’t even register that he’s right there until a familiar hand grasps his shoulder. Instinctively, he flinches, rearing back like an animal caged in a zoo, preparing to lash out at any given moment. The door’s right there, he thinks. He can make it.

Those blue-green eyes appear in his vision. Anger follows right after.

“Everything’s a joke to you, huh?” Daryl spits out. Paul’s entire body goes rigid, eyes blown wide, as he stares at Daryl helplessly.

“What? No!” Paul grabs his arm, holding him there. “No, Daryl, that’s not what I’m doing at all. I was gonna say yes!”

_What?_

Daryl stops trying to pull away. Instead, he narrows his eyes, the cogs in mind whirling at light speed. He heard the words, but they aren’t quite sinking in. He can’t…

“I was gonna say yes,” Paul says, again. He wipes a thumb over Daryl’s cheek, and Daryl leans into the touch. “I want to marry you, Daryl.”

“You do?” The words practically tumble out his mouth.

“Yes,” Paul confirms without a single ounce of hesitation in his voice. And then he pauses, something else flickering across his face. Guilt, Daryl realizes. “And…sorry, for laughing. You know I do that when I’m nervous sometimes.”

“Nearly gave me a damn heart attack,” Daryl grumbles. He can still feel that anxious itch under his skin, even as it slowly begins to ease off. Can feel his nerves cutting through him as sharp as steel. 

“Sorry.” Paul presses a quick kiss to Daryl’s mouth. “I didn’t mean to.”

The next time Paul leans up, Daryl twists his head to the side and meets him halfway. Thunder roars in his ears as their tongues meet, but it isn’t the kind that makes his insides go numb. It’s powerful and overwhelming, full of emotions that Daryl can’t begin to name, blooming in his chest like a flower in spring, a thousand tiny butterflies springing forth in his gut. Paul’s hands are holding either side of his face, thumbs smoothing against the rough patch of his jaw, pulling him closer and closer.

“So, are you gonna ask me or not?” Paul whispers when they part.

“Ya already said yes,” Daryl reminds him.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t want to be asked.”

Daryl sighs. “I don’t have a ring.”

“Semantics,” Paul replies with a shrug and a coy smile. Daryl frowns – because Paul wants him to do the one thing that makes his insides practically curl in on themselves. He still doesn’t have the guts to get on one knee. Still thinks he’ll look stupid. But Paul kisses him again, climbs into his lap, and moves against him until Daryl starts to squirm.

“Please,” Paul breathes against his lips. “It doesn’t have to be anything fancy. Just want to hear you say it, is all.”

“Alright,” he surrenders with a sigh. “Marry me?”

It’s blunt and to the point, he supposes.

Paul smiles.

“So romantic, Mr. Dixon,” he teases. “I’d love to.”

Then, he leans down and slots their mouths together again.

 

* * *

 

“Paul Dixon.”

Daryl gradually awakens, eyes dry and mind foggy, as the world settles around him. The sun is pouring in through the window, shining right through the sheer curtains, making him feel warm – too warm, he realizes. The comforter is pulled up to his waist, but he’s bare everywhere else. When he absently moves his foot, his toes knock into something else. Someone else.

Paul is staring at him when he turns his head against the pillow. With a tired groan, Daryl rolls onto his side, until their legs are tangled together, his chest pressed against Paul’s shoulder.

“What are ya doin’?”

“Trying out names,” Paul answers, far more chipper than he usually is in the mornings.

“Ya don’t wanna be a Dixon,” he says. It makes him think of his pa. Of Merle. Of the person he used to be. None of those people remind him remotely of Paul. Or of the person Daryl has become.

“Well, Daryl Rovia doesn’t sound that good,” Paul counters. “We could always hyphenate our names. Paul Rovia-Dixon, no, what about Paul Dixon-Rovia? Daryl Dixon-Rovia?”

Daryl merely stares at him like he’s lost his mind.

“Okay, we can figure that out some other time,” Paul decides. “What about the wedding? What are we doing for that?”

At the very mention of that, Daryl blanches. An image of Ezekiel and his damn tiger with a whole fucking cavalry knocking on Alexandria’s door flickers through his mind. They’d probably stick around too. Carol is going to want to be here for the occasion. He knows it.

The circus wouldn’t leave this time.

Daryl groans.

“Not really a big wedding guy, are you?” Paul inquires with a laugh. “Neither am I, to be honest. We could just exchange rings at home and call it a day. The new world equivalent of a courthouse wedding, I guess.”

“‘Sides,” Paul continues with what can only be described as a leer. “The best part of everything isn’t the wedding. It’s the honeymoon.”

“Can’t go nowhere, though,” Daryl reminds him. Not that he’d have been able to take Paul anywhere before this. A decent bed and breakfast would have been the best he could’ve done with what he had.

Paul rolls onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. It makes the sheets shift slightly against his hips, and Daryl can’t quite stop himself from staring at the fine trail of hair peeking above the edge of the comforter.  

“I mean the honeymoon sex.” Paul cards his free hand through Daryl’s hair. “Could ask for a couple of days off. Lock ourselves up here.” There is a pregnant pause, nails scratching against his scalp. “You could tie me up, do whatever you want.”

“Nah–”

“Could tie you up and ride you. Make you watch me get myself off.” Paul leans over and kisses his jaw. “Could make me scream your name, if you wanted.”

Daryl groans at the thought of that.

“Yer awful,” Daryl tells him sincerely.

“But you love me anyway.” Paul kisses him on the nose. On the cheek. On the jaw, again. On the forehead. Finally, Daryl pushes him away, pins him down with one hand planted on his chest, as he looms over him. Paul, the damn loon, is still grinning, like he has the upper hand in all this.

Daryl starts working on his jaw, lowers down to his chest, drags his teeth across the man’s sternum. Paul begins breathing hard when he peppers kisses on his abdomen, the firm skin shifting quite a bit beneath his ministrations.

“Was thinking you could wear that – ah – suit I got you. Could find – oh, fuck – some matching ties.”

As he's come to learn, it doesn't take much to make Paul stop talking.

 

* * *

 

_IX.Then_

He doesn't expect it - hell, he didn't expect something like this in a million years. The signs were there, he supposes. Not that he had ever been any good at reading them. But it's pretty cut and dry, impossible to misunderstand, when Paul places a warm hand against his cheek and closes the gap between them. When he kisses him, all Daryl can think is how right this feels. How perfect this is - like he's living in some sort of morbid romantic comedy where more bad things happen than good. This, though, this is good - better than good but he can't quite figure out a better word to describe it. 

Even perfect sounds lackluster compared to what he's feeling.

Daryl doesn't know what to do. He's been kissed before, by women who were too soft and hardly knew a thing about him - women he met through his brother more often than not. This is different than those times. It's dryer, less pleasure-seeking and more timid. Paul is probably testing the ropes, seeing where this leads although Daryl doesn't have the slightest idea where this journey will bring them. He's never...

Eventually, he reciprocates - well, he tries to at least. Paul leads him through it but Daryl doesn't quite follow as easily as he wishes he could. He lets his hand grasp Paul's hip, closes his fingers hesitantly until they're flat against the worn fabric of his pants. His head is swimming in pleasant circles despite the edge of panic that still runs through his veins. He considers doing something more, something that someone who's actually good at this sort of thing would do, but he isn't confident enough to attempt anything.

When Paul pulls away, he's flushed red all the way to the tip of his nose.

The younger man sounds so unsure of himself. Daryl is too, but not in the same way Paul is. Thus, when the opportunity presents itself, he takes it by the horns - because if there's something he's certain of, it's _this_. While he falters once, the doubt returning to cloud his mind for a few moments, Paul is quick to take him by the wrist and tug him inside. It's enough to distract him, enough to send those troubling thoughts into the back of his mind where they belong. 

As he soon finds out, when Paul said they didn't have to do much more than talk, he wasn't lying.

"Here," Paul says as he hands Daryl a glass of water.

"Thanks." He doesn't drink any of it, just holds it in his hands with a distinct sense of unease twisting in his gut. He doesn't know what comes next. This is the part he's never done. 

Thankfully, Paul is much better at conversation than he is.

"Please, tell me I didn't read that wrong," the younger man says after he takes a seat next to Daryl, close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating from his skin but not close enough to touch.

When he finally gains the courage to meet Paul's gaze, he's a bit taken aback by what he sees. The man sitting next to him isn't the trickster that likes to rile him up and make a joke out of everything. But it isn't the man he met on the battlefield either, the one who would stare death right in the face. No, his expression is too raw, too open and vulnerable.

"Nah," he answers. "Ya didn't."

Paul releases a breath. "Good. I'm glad."

And then he reaches over and places his palm flat against Daryl's bare skin. The contact makes him nearly jump out of his skin, but it makes the nervous edge ease away. Something warm and content is left in its place. 

"Is this okay?"

He manages a nod. Paul smiles and shifts closer, until their shoulders bump.

"I ain't never..." He falters, not quite sure how to say it. 

A part of him is mortified. He's too old for this, too old to learn something he should've done before he had his first taste of beer. There's still that voice in his head that's telling him Paul won't want someone like him - someone who's got more scars than skin, someone who's spent most of his life surrounded by monsters. He'll want someone who knows how to do the simple things, someone who can kiss him breathless, someone who can express themselves with ease. Someone who isn't Daryl.

"That's okay," Paul reassures him softly. "We'll figure it out. We've got time."

"Ya sure?" he can't help but ask.

"I'm very sure."

He still can't bring himself to fully believe Paul. Still can't wrap his head around something like that. Sure, he can understand it in a physical sense - Paul's probably lonely in Alexandria because most of his friends are at Hilltop. But he can't quite comprehend someone wanting more than that, someone wanting - and willing - to be with him in a romantic sense.

"Hey," he hears Paul speak up again. A palm rests against his cheek, gently urging him to tilt his head until he meets a familiar pair of bright eyes.

"I want to be with you, Daryl. I want  _you_."

He's never heard those words before. In fact, the closest he's come to something like that was shortly after the Claimers, when he found Rick among the chaos. While Merle was blood, he came to realize that Rick was family just as much as he was. Michonne, Carl, Tara, Aaron, Carol - all of them are family. 

He's more than a name. He's more than his past.

"A'right," he finally breathes out. "Yeah. I want that too."

"Guess that means we're a couple then," Paul surmises with a pleased, little smile. He looks relieved.

Daryl scrunches his face. "Ya make it sound weird."

"What's weird about it?" Paul inquires with a laugh.

"I feel too old fer' somethin' like that." He feels too old for a lot of things now. 

"You're never too old to find somebody." 

Daryl glances down at him. Paul stares back, still leaning his weight against him. He can see the moment Paul's eyes flicker down to his lips, so quick that Daryl wonders if it was a trick his imagination played on him. But Paul is so close, still looking at him with those damning blue-green eyes. 

"Can I?" Paul asks - his voice barely above a whisper. Daryl remembers him asking that very question not even ten minutes ago.

"Don't have ta' ask," he says instead.

"I just wanna be sure I'm not pressuring you to-"

"You're not."

Paul is still smiling when he shifts against him, one arm moving to the edge of his shoulder before he's bending up and placing his lips against Daryl's like he did on the porch. Instinctively, Daryl brings a hand to his cheek, holding him steady. Paul kisses him slow and careful, like before. This time, Daryl kisses back - still unsure, but not as much as he used to be.

"Y'know, when I said we didn't have to do anything besides talking, I meant it," Paul says when he pulls away, but he hovers close - enough so that Daryl can feel his breath fanning against his face.

"I know."

Paul grins and it's all teeth this time, like Daryl said something funny.

"I really like you," Paul tells him. He makes it sound so simple. So easy.  

"I know that, too."

"Yeah, but I think you needed to hear it."

 

* * *

 

_X. Now_

For once, the people bustling around them don’t faze him. His mind is too preoccupied to care – all that matters is the fact that Paul is here, unharmed, in his arms. He’s warm and solid where he was cold and transparent in his nightmares, smiling up at him, bright-eyed as he always is.

“Sorry,” Paul tells him. “Took a bit longer than we thought it would.”

Five days. It was supposed to be three, but they ran into a small herd on the road and had to take a detour. Nothing unusual considering that seems to happen a lot now. That didn’t stop Daryl from nearly chewing his nail down to the bud. Didn’t stop his wandering mind – when he was awake and when he was asleep. The worst conclusions were always the first ones that popped into his head, like clockwork.

“S’fine,” he says. “Ain’t yer fault.”

Paul’s smile is soft around the edges. He tips his head down, inhaling sharply, but doesn’t say anything when he looks back up at Daryl.

“Missed you,” Daryl mumbles, quiet enough that those nosing around can’t hear.

“Yeah, I missed you too.” Paul pauses, taking his hand between both of his. “I think I’ll stick around for a bit. I don’t like being away from you that long.”

“Thought that’s what ya wanted?”

“Five days is a bit much,” Paul replies. “I get homesick pretty easily.”

Paul must see something over his shoulder because he falls into a curious silence, eyes slightly narrowed at something. Daryl has an idea of what that thing is. He doesn’t bother turning around. He doesn’t need to.

“Ezekiel’s here.” Paul turns back to him. “Wait, does that mean…?”

“They’re at the house,” Daryl tells him with a small smile. “Got here yesterday afternoon.”

Immediately, Paul grabs for his hand again and tugs him down the street, in the direction their house lays. Whatever lingering doubts Daryl may have had essentially diminished over the passing weeks. The thing between them is very real. Now, it has a name.

“Rick’s lettin’ me skip watch duty for three days,” Daryl informs him as soon as they make it through the front door. “Said I deserved a break.”

Paul twists around, gets on his toes, and kisses Daryl on the mouth.

“Rick’s a smart man.”

Without a word, Daryl takes a step back and reaches into the pockets of his cargo pants, pulling out a small, black velvet box. Paul stares at him wide-eyed and slack-jawed, and Daryl would laugh at his expression if it was under any other circumstance. A nervous sweat is already building on his temple, his hands trembling as he holds that tiny box.

“I lied,” he says.

Even Paul is shaking now. He holds out his unsteady hand, waiting on what Daryl knows to be bated breath. Daryl opens the box, plucks the smaller gold band from where it rests inside, and begins sliding it on Paul’s finger. He pauses halfway.

“Ya sure?”

“Very sure,” Paul confirms.

Daryl slides it the rest of the way on, letting Paul pull his hand away to take a closer look. Even now, Paul still seems to be in a state of shock, just staring at the ring like he can’t believe it’s really there. And then his attention focuses on Daryl, glancing between him and the box.

“Let me…” Daryl passes the velvet box over to him; watches Paul carefully take out the other ring. The younger man rotates it between his fingers, pausing when he seems to notice something.

“Our initials are in here. P.D. and D.D. – guess you’re okay with me taking your name, after all.”

“I might’ve asked for that,” he admits. After they took their measurements, he wrote in a special request at the bottom of the page, handing it off to Rick before Paul could see it.

“Good thing I didn’t change my mind then.” With that, Paul takes his hand and slides the ring down his finger. Despite his initial worry, it fits well and doesn’t feel too heavy on his skin. It shouldn’t affect his crossbow, thankfully.

“We match,” Paul says. There's a gleeful lilt in his voice.

“We should. We’re married.”

_Married_ … He has a husband. It’s going to take a long time for him to get used to that – to all of it. God knows, it took him weeks to get used to Paul’s presence at the beginning. This’ll probably take months before it actually settles in, years before it becomes second nature.

“Come to think of it,” Paul begins, climbing to his tiptoes to toy with the collar of Daryl’s flannel. “We’re both Mr. Dixon now.”

“Ain’t that what you wanted?”

“Definitely,” Paul replies before smashing their mouths together again.

 

* * *

 

_XI. Then_

He wonders if this is what being set on fire feels like. Molten heat spreading through his blood like fire to gasoline, until every piece of him – every muscle, every bone, every nerve – is screaming like a banshee. Despite this noise, he is unable to move, unable to do anything more than squeeze his eyes shut and breathe. His fingers cling onto the sheets for dear life, until his knuckles begin to lock while his throat feels like it’s beginning to close in on itself, only allowing small gasps of air through his parted lips.

The sounds being made below him… God, he thinks through the haze. He ain’t gonna last – not like this. He tries his best not to blow his load right then and there, like a damned teenager. But Paul does something with his tongue, swipes it against the slit of his dick, and Daryl knows he’s gone. Feels those tendrils of pleasure yanking at his gut, feels heat coursing through his veins, a pleasant shiver running up his spine like lightning.

Through narrow-slant eyes, he watches Paul swallow every last bit of it down before he pulls back with a bruised mouth that’s going to be the star of Daryl’s dreams for quite some time. Daryl barely stops himself from collapsing, most of his weight resting on his elbows now. Paul climbs onto the bed, situated next to him, staring at him with those big blue-green eyes that make Daryl’s knees go weak.

A blind man could see the bulge in Paul’s sweatpants, but Daryl doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know where his hands should go. He forces himself back upright and hesitantly places a palm against the bare skin of Paul’s arm, where the raised hairs tickle against his skin as he closes his fingers around him.

“What about you?” Daryl finally manages to ask. Even now, his cheeks warm at the very suggestion. As if Paul didn’t just have his dick in his mouth.

“What about me?” Paul returns with a small smile, leaning into Daryl’s hand.

“What am I supposed ta’ do?”

“Whatever you want,” Paul reassures him. “We can just cuddle and talk–”

He’s trying to go slow, even now. Nearly two months and this is the first time a single article of clothing has even been shed – and it figures that it’s Daryl’s pants while Paul is still fully dressed next to him. Kissing was good – it’s still good – but tonight, after a few bottles of rum Daryl scavenged, he’s feeling a little braver. Bolder. Kissing started in the kitchen, proceeded to Daryl’s couch as kissing turned into necking and wandering hands, before the two of them finally staggered to the bedroom, Paul’s nimble fingers toying with the button of his jeans.

Paul must’ve asked him at least a hundred times if he was sure – and he was at the time. He was very sure when Paul swallowed him down into that wet heat and got him off like a well-seasoned pro. He still doesn’t feel like this was a mistake, but that doesn’t change the fact that Daryl doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.

“Nah,” Daryl interjects, nodding down to Paul’s obvious erection.

“You wanna get me off,” Paul concludes with half-lidded eyes. The heat in Daryl’s cheeks flares. He looks away, turns his attention down to his legs, where his jeans hang loosely against his knees still, but Paul reaches for him. Gentle hands cradle his face and angle him back towards the younger man, until he’s forced to acknowledge that amused smile.

“You can touch me, Daryl. There ain’t a right way of doin’ this. We have time to figure out what we both like,” Paul reassures him softly. He then reaches for Daryl’s hand and guides it to the hem of his shirt. Wordlessly, he helps Paul pull the heather gray Henley off, tugging it over his head with a growing sense of eagerness. His nerves have calmed into something more manageable, a small wave of confidence washing over him the second he sees Paul’s grin through his mess of hair.

Where Daryl is broad and scarred, Paul’s form tapers narrow and thin with ridges of strong, lean muscle and bone peeking through. Unlike Daryl, his skin is soft and clear of blemishes but for the small mole next to his bellybutton. As his eyes lower down, he notices a fine line of coarse hair leading to the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Touch me,” Paul whispers as he takes Daryl’s hands between his own again, placing them against his sides. Automatically, Daryl’s fingers wander. Across his stomach. Up his chest, thumb brushing against a nipple, making Paul shiver beneath his ministrations. Just that tiny movement makes a renewed sense of confidence swell in Daryl’s belly, until he’s touching the other man almost reverently. The jut of his shoulders. The shape of his arms. His back.

Paul leans up and kisses him, and Daryl scrunches his face almost immediately when he tastes himself on Paul’s tongue. Paul pulls away, cautious.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

If Paul can suck his dick, Daryl can sure as hell kiss him after. He never answers. Instead, he jerks forward and kisses him hard on the mouth again, swallowing down Paul’s surprised gasp. An amused exhale fans against his skin as Paul begins kissing him back. Soon enough, he finds the man half in his lap, hard against his thigh.

Paul pulls away first, breathing hard.

“Still wanna get me off?” he asks.

Daryl stares at him, unimpressed. At first, Paul remains there, unsteady, but Daryl pushes a hand through those long strands, folding his palm around the nape of his neck, rubbing his thumb at the skin there, hoping Paul will get the hint.

“Okay,” Paul finally says before he situates himself against the pillows, watching Daryl with keen eyes. Slowly, he parts his thighs, spreading them open. And then he lifts his hips, jamming his fingers beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, and pulls them down to his knees. He bends his legs impossibly far back that it makes Daryl’s ache at the mere thought of trying something like that, but that ache turns into something else completely when Paul shucks his pants the rest of the way off.

He’s smaller and uncut, pinker than the rest of his skin, straining against his abdomen. There’s a trickle of precum already on the tip. Daryl’s mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton.

“C’mere, then.”

Daryl does as he’s told, scooting between those open legs. Paul guides one arm to rest on the empty space next to his head, sinking against the forgiving surface. Paul takes his other hand, spreads his palm out in front of him before licking a long stripe from the vein in his wrist to the tips of his fingers. And then Paul puts Daryl’s hand on his leaking prick and Daryl’s mind completely goes blank.

He doesn’t feel like he’s settled back into his bones until Paul tugs impatiently at his hair. When he looks down, he takes in Paul’s amused grin, the haziness taking space in his speckled eyes.

Paul gently urges Daryl’s hand to move, inches him up. Eventually, Daryl closes his fingers around him and slides his hand against the shaft like he does when he’s getting himself off. Only now, his grip is looser and his pace is slower, too afraid of doing something wrong to change tempo.

“Faster,” Paul says – and Daryl finally speeds his hand up. Something warm and powerful blooms in his chest when Paul’s eyes flutter shut, a breathless moan escaping his parted lips. The man arches up into his hand, beckoning him on.

He grips the base of Paul’s cock harder when the man instructs him too, takes in those little gasps. Paul shoves a hand into the front of his shirt, rubbing against his abdomen and chest appreciatively. Daryl can feel a familiar heat already smoldering again in his gut.

Daryl leans down and kisses him, ignoring the painful clack of teeth as he twists his head the way he knows he should. Paul practically groans against his mouth.

“Fuck, Daryl, faster,” Paul tells him again when Daryl moves away. The younger man’s hips arch completely off the bed, relentless against Daryl’s hand.

“M’gonna–” The words stop abruptly as Paul tips his head back, squeezes his eyes shut, and lets out a ragged moan, spasming against Daryl’s fingers.

He looks absolutely beautiful, Daryl thinks as he takes in Paul laying there before him, all blissed out and still struggling for air. He could do this every day for the rest of his life and die a happy man if it meant seeing this sight every time.

Daryl just watches him for awhile; quiet and unmoving even as those blue-green eyes flutter open. A small, sleepy smile stretches across Paul’s lips nice and slow. He can’t stop himself from resting a palm against Paul’s warm cheek, inhaling sharply as the man melts against him.

“C’mere,” Paul whispers, tugging at his wrist gently. Daryl bends down until their lips meet once more. Careful fingers card through his hair, nails scraping across his scalp soothingly as Paul catches his lower lip between his teeth. Daryl kisses him slow and deep.

“Wanna stay the night?” Paul asks him when he pulls back to take a breath.

The question makes Daryl pause. They’ve shared a bed before, and he’s spent long, cool nights and frigid mornings with Paul spooned across his back. But this is the first time they’ve gone any further than a few hands beneath clothes, shedding every article until all that was left was skin. There is a possibility this could happen again, soon in fact, and the mere thought of that makes something stir in Daryl’s gut.

“Yeah,” he manages to answer through the jumbled mess in his brain. He wouldn’t mind spending the next morning tangled in the sheets with Paul. Wouldn’t mind seeing him come unraveled beneath Daryl’s hands again and again.

Paul smiles up at him, eyes sparkling even in the artificial light. Then, he looks down at something and his expression falters. Lightly, Paul tugs at the hem of his shirt.

“Sorry, think we ruined this one,” the younger man tells him with an amused huff, gesturing to the mess dampening the cloth lying over his abdomen.

“S’fine,” he tells Paul. He’s never been picky about what clothes he pulls over his body. As long as they’re not in the way when he hunts or goes on a supply run, he doesn’t particularly care about aesthetics.

“I’m a mess myself.” Beneath him, Paul stretches out and gently urges him back. “I probably should go clean up.”

Paul nearly stumbles off the bed, curiously clumsy, before he swiftly regains his footing. He spares Daryl one last fleeting smile, disappearing into the bathroom a moment later.

Daryl pulls his boxers up but kicks off his pants with what little grace he has. The mess on his shirt sticks to his skin uncomfortably, but he can only toy with the hem of the garment because he knows what lies underneath the thin stretch of cotton. Paul hasn’t seen it. His hands have come close, but all it took was Daryl freezing up against him for Paul to get the hint and pull his inquisitive fingers away. It must’ve stuck in his mind because Paul pointedly kept his hands on Daryl’s front whenever he touched him after that.

“Are you gonna sleep in that?” Paul inquires with an odd tone when he returns a few minutes later. “You can borrow one of mine, if you want.”

Daryl’s eyes wander back to that familiar figure in the doorway. He’s still naked as the day he was born, not an ounce of self-consciousness evident in his posture.

He knows Paul. He knows that the man wouldn’t judge him for his scars. The uncomfortable questions he dreads every time someone sees them will remain unsaid because Paul _knows_ that Daryl doesn’t like talking about it. Paul won’t push him to open up. He never has.

So, what is Daryl so afraid of?

With quivering fingers, he yanks the soiled garment over his head and throws it to the floor. The worst part comes soon after, the part where he sits there, panic bubbling beneath his skin. He doesn’t know what to do next. There aren’t any words he wants to say. None that he can.

He hears Paul’s quiet footsteps, feels the bed dip beside him as Paul takes a careful seat next to him. He knows when Paul finally sees them, because Paul doesn’t quite stop that quiet, little gasp that escapes his parted lips. Slowly, Paul grasps his bicep, both gentle and unnerving at the same time.

“Is this okay?” Paul asks him, fingers tightening ever so slightly against his arm.

Daryl still can’t quite find his voice, so he musters a shaky nod instead.

_“Ain’t nobody ever gonna care about you except me, little brother.”_

As he’s come to learn over the years, his brother was wrong about a lot of things. Merle had a very skewed perception about anything and everything, specifically about how the Dixon brothers fit into a “world not meant for people like them”. Daryl spent decades buying into Merle’s bullshit, thinking he was never going to amount to much because of who he was. Thinking it was them versus the whole world.

Turns out, names didn’t mean much in the grand scheme of things. Everyone had scars, some that were physical, some that were invisible, some that were deeper than others. People learned to live with them. Learned to bury those wounds and move on, because staying in one place for too long – growing stagnant – only meant certain death.

Paul doesn’t care about who he was. Doesn’t care about the things Merle told him as a child. He likes him despite of those things, cares about Daryl for reasons Daryl doubts he’ll ever be able to fully comprehend. The first time Merle saw his scars, he remembers nearly breaking down right then and there, his stomach full of disgust and resentment. Yet, laying here in bed with Paul flat against those very scars, lips warm against Daryl’s shoulder blades, beard scraping against one of the many reminders of his pa’s lashings, he feels none of those things.

In their place are warmth and a comfort he hasn’t felt since he was too young to understand his pa’s violent outbursts. His eyes begin slipping shut, just as one of Paul’s fingers traces over the puckered mark where one of his bolts pierced him years ago.

_You were always full of shit, Merle._

 

* * *

 

_XII. Now_

“You two headin’ out?”

When he turns around, he sees Rick walking towards them. Paul must’ve heard him too because he stops in his tracks as well, his arm bumping lightly against Daryl’s. He can feel the tips of the man’s fingers brushing against his wrist, both warm and cool – the familiar band smoothing across his knuckles just for a short moment.

“Saw a deer last week,” Daryl tells his friend. “Wanna see if I can find it again.”

It’s partially the truth. Mostly, he just wants some time away – outside these walls that sometimes feel too small. Slowly, he's become accustomed to this place, accustomed to the fancy houses and the new faces, but the only thing that can make him breathe easy again is leaving all the noise - if even for a short while. 

Unlike a lot of the other times, he has company. He knows that Paul isn’t the biggest outdoor enthusiast, but he seems nothing short of eager. Daryl didn’t even have to ask if he wanted to come, he had volunteered all on his own.

“Well, just be careful,” Rick says, looking between them with a small smile building on his lips. “And try to get back before sundown.”

“We’re always careful,” Paul reminds him.

Rick spares them one last nod, a silent ‘good luck’, before he wanders back into Alexandria’s bustling streets. Daryl throws his bag into the backseat of the Honda Accord, already climbing into the driver’s seat before Paul can get a word in edgewise. Paul slips into the passenger’s seat a moment later, tugging the seatbelt over his chest.

“What? You don’t have faith in my driving skills?” he teases.

Daryl starts the engine, giving him a distinctly exasperated look before he’s pulling the car out of Alexandria’s front gates. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Paul recline back with a small but humored grin.

It isn’t until they’re on the open stretch of desolate road that he says something.

“I saw what you did to that truck.”

This time, Paul laughs.

“It wasn’t one of my finer moments,” he agrees, shaking his head. “I’m not that bad normally, though.”

Daryl isn’t convinced. He lets out a quiet snort, not bothering with a proper reply.

“Oh, come on. Even Carl’s driving now,” Paul says after some time passes.

“Yeah, ever seen me in a car with him?” Daryl returns. There is an amused smile tugging on his lips, one that he can’t quite suppress in time when he catches Paul sneaking a fleeting glance in his direction.

“Alright, fine,” Paul surrenders with a sigh. “But I’m driving us back.”

“No.” The reply falls off his tongue without a second thought.

He’s not surprised to feel a hand that’s not his own sliding over his on the gearshift. But he doesn’t stop Paul from tangling their fingers together loosely, helpless to the small burst of warmth that’s taken shelter in his chest. Even now, with the barest touch, Paul still has this effect on him.

“Please?” he tries again. “I’ll give you a massage when we get home if you let me.”

He can’t help but wonder if there’s a double meaning in there somewhere.

Daryl narrows his eyes, but doesn’t take them off the road. When he spares a quick glance in the other's direction, he notices the distinctly pleased smirk stretched across his face – but Daryl can’t find it in himself to be irritated.

God, he thinks, he’s too far gone. Merle’s got to be laughing at him. He'd probably be saying he was whipped if he was still around.

“I’ll think ‘bout it,” Daryl finally mumbles a little later. 

He doesn’t have to look over to know that Paul’s grinning from ear to ear.

Daryl parks the car on the edge of the road that has long turned into dirt, slipping the keys into his pocket before he inclines back into his seat with a soft sigh. He can feel those curious eyes trained on his skin. Sure enough, when Daryl finally turns his head, they’re staring right at him, sending a familiar but pleasant buzz down his spine. Paul’s hand is still flat against his on the console.

“We should get going soon, huh?”

“Prob’ly,” Daryl agrees quietly.

Neither of them is moving though. In a way, he feels like he waiting for Paul to do something, to lead so that Daryl can follow.

“This is nice,” Paul eventually begins again. “Peaceful too, walkers aside.”

He can see a few of them ambling around out there, too far to pay them any mind. Other than that, he supposes Paul is right. It’s quiet here, where the others are miles away. Where there aren’t any guns shooting at them.

A few years ago, a place like this would’ve felt like home. A place where the only company he had were the little creatures in the trees, where he didn’t have to answer to anyone. Now, though, he takes a lingering look and the only thing he can think is that there’s something missing.

“Ain’t nothin’ here,” he says.

“That’s true.”

There’s a lull after that, a time where they just sit back and watch the red, orange, and yellow leaves crumble to the tattered asphalt. Where the only thing he can feel – the only thing he cares to feel – is Paul’s fingers against his skin. He brushes the pad of his thumb against the ring on Paul’s finger.

Eventually, he digs his free hand into his back pocket, pulling out the familiar shape. Without so much as a word, he drops it on console. Paul’s eyes widen just a bit.

“It ain’t that I don’t trust ya,” he decides to tell him. Honestly, he trusts Paul more than he trusts himself at times. 

"And ya don't have to ask," he adds in a moment later. "Don't want us to be like that."

He thinks about his old man and his ma, how he grew up thinking that was normal only to find out well after the world went to shit that it  _wasn't_. There's a part of him that's afraid - afraid that he'll become a monster just like him. It wouldn't be hard, not when it feels like that's all he knows - or all he sees when he shuts his eyes. 

Daryl remembers that guy at the Sanctuary. He remembers how blank his mind became when he first swung down that iron rod. Even now, when he thinks he should feel guilty, he doesn't. He wonders how close he's come to crossing that line. He wonders if he already has. 

“We're not, so don't worry about it. I was just teasing you.” Paul pulls his hand away to take the keys. “I know I’m not the best driver, but I’ll do my best not to get us both killed – or in a lake.”

“How would ya? There ain’t nothin’ out here but the dead ones.”

“Good point.” Paul glances down at the keys in his lap. Something odd crosses his expression, something Daryl can't quite pinpoint. It lingers there, like a shadow.

"How long do you think this is gonna last?"

"Wha'?"

Paul purses his lips. "Peace," he clarifies. "It feels like we were always fighting one battle or another. Feels weird not to, I guess - even now."

"Dunno." He shrugs. "It ain't worth worryin' about. Shit happens, we deal with it."

Paul leans back against his seat with a breathless laugh. 

"That's one way of looking at it."

"Yeah, well worryin' 'bout it ain't gonna stop it from happenin'," he says. "Might as well enjoy the times we ain't fightin'."

He remembers when he wasn't able to do that - when the only thing he could think of was war even when it was clearly over. He wasn't the only one back then, and Paul isn't the only one who worries something bad's going to come out of the trees. It's inevitable. But now that they've got a roof over their head and people to protect, they've got something to fight for. Running isn't an option anymore.

While it took time, he eventually realized that worrying wouldn't going to change a thing. He's got something good going for him and the last thing he wants to do is push that away.

The smile that grows on Paul's lips warms him down to his toes.

"You always know just what to say to calm me down."

He can't help but scoff at that. Words have never come easy to him. As he's come to learn, a lot of things are strange and foreign, especially the things that seem to come easy to a lot of other people. But they become easier with time. More natural. 

“We should get goin’,” Daryl says. “Don’t got all day.”

“Yeah,” Paul agrees with a nod before pushes the car door open, hopping out and tucking the keys into his back pocket. Daryl follows him soon after, grabbing their things from the backseat before he shuts the door as quiet as he can. Paul takes the backpack off his hands, pulling the straps over his shoulders while Daryl adjusts his crossbow over his.

"Ready?"

"Lead the way," Paul replies.  

Sure enough, he can hear the steady pitter-patter of footsteps trailing behind him as he makes his way into the woods. Slowly, Paul finds his way back to Daryl's side, where their hands bump against one another's from time to time. It's while they're following a trail of deer scat that he looks up to the cloudy sky that hangs above them and ponders a single thought. While he doesn't know what the future brings, he knows one thing. 

_Forever isn't scary anymore._

 

 

~Fin~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I rewrote the ending a couple times because I wasn't happy with it. Although I wanted it to be a happy ending (and it was mostly), I didn't think it would be realistic that Daryl would suddenly overcome all of his demons just because he fell in love. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading and for leaving kudos and comments. I really appreciate the input and I'm hoping to write (and finish) some more fics soon.


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